


At the gate

by Tashilover



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Attempted Rape, Kidnapping, Murder, dark themes, dark!Douglas, prompt, serial killer!Douglas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 25,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We ARE friends," Douglas said. "If we weren't, you'd be dead right now."</p><p> </p><p>Based off a prompt in the CP meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Personally Douglas would rather not to leave the lights off for his dear old captain. Though Martin has never said it out loud, Douglas believed he harboured a small fear of the dark. When they shared hotel rooms together, Martin always insisted in keeping one lamp on. "I don't want to be stumbling around in the dark if I need to use the toilet in the middle of the night." This was the excuse he often gave. He always kept the light on, even if the light glared directly into his eyes.

Douglas kept the lights off because fear did things to a person. It exercised power without even really trying. As thin and wary and squawky Martin was, he was also a fighter. Without the drugs, Martin would have struggled like a cornered animal, biting and scratching and possibly taking off his own left arm to get away. Fear made him hesitate, cautious, and it will make him that more grateful when the lights were turned back on.

Douglas walked into his seemingly, empty home. All he could hear was the hallway grandfather clock ticking loudly. Glad to know the soundproof walls were doing their job, he went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. His usual schedule involved taking a shower first, but Martin was probably famished right now. The man couldn't afford losing any more meat on him.

Douglas made a small meal of baked chicken, vegetables, and for dessert, a healthy portion of bread pudding. He only included two utensils with the meal: a spoon and chopsticks. Best not to supply Martin with something sharp.

Once done, Douglas picked up the tray of food and walked to the furtherest area of his home. Back here, there were only two other ways to go: to his garden, which faced outwards to a large, empty, overgrown field, and the basement. Douglas set the tray down, and pulled out a key from his back pocket.

The padlock on the basement door was old but still in great use. Douglas never wanted to switch it out. The key slipped in with practice, and with a twist, the padlock came undone. He opened the door wide, readying himself to hear screaming. People often did when they heard the door open and saw the light streaming in, but not Martin. That worried Douglas. Was he sick?

He flicked on the light and picked up the tray again. Carefully not to spill the peas from the plate, Douglas slowly walked down into the depths of his basement.

At the bottom, chained to a wall and sitting on a newly bought mattress was Martin. Only his left ankle was shackled, which was bruised and red from repeated pullings. Douglas gave him enough chain to move around within fifteen feet of his bed. Martin had his knees pulled up to his chest, staring wordlessly at Douglas. His eyes were red, indicating he'd been crying for a while.

"I brought you dinner," Douglas said pleasantly like he didn't have a grown man captive in his home. "I do hope you enjoy it."

There was no toilet in the room, only a small chamber pot kept in the corner. After Douglas set down the tray on the floor, he walked over to inspect. "Did you use the pot? If you're good, I can offer wipes-"

He was expecting this. As soon as his body turned, Martin attacked. His captain launched himself off the bed, his arms stretched out, his mouth snarling. Douglas shifted, pulled back his arm and punched Martin right in the cheek, HARD. Martin stumbled back and fell upon the mattress, curling in on himself, whimpering.

Douglas sighed and inspected his knuckles for a moment. He got a small cut and perhaps a bruise, nothing a few days rest wouldn't fix. "Just for that," he said, going back to the tray. He picked up the bowl of bread pudding. "You just lost your dessert privileges. I'll come back to empty your pot later."

He turned to leave.

"Why...?" Martin asked brokenly. He was still cradling his face. "Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends."

Douglas paused. He turned back, and keeping direct eye contact with Martin, he scooped up a piece of pudding and popped it into this mouth. "We ARE friends, Martin. If we weren't, you would be _dead_ right now."

"Mmmhm..." he continued, still eating. "It's a shame you lost this, it's really good."

With that, he walked back up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of past tortures and murders.

In truth, Douglas had no idea how many people he's killed. Some he could remember in perfect clarity; the way their blood bubbled to the surface, the sweet development of bruises on their chests, the way they begged for death and thought things couldn't get any worse. Douglas often took this as a challenge to himself to see if he could make it worse. (Spoiler: he could.)

But for every victim he enjoyed, there were ten others who blurred in his mind. Nearly two weeks ago he followed a drunken man out of a pub and when no one was looking, snapped his neck like a frail chicken. Douglas only did because he wanted to hear the snap. It was no different than spotting a dry leaf on the ground and wanting to step on it. It was a brief moment of happiness to hear that satisfying crunch under your foot. That man's neck had been satisfying. If not, Douglas would have gone after someone else. So in some ways, that man was a hero. He prevented many more deaths by sacrificing his own life.

After finishing the bread pudding, Douglas put antiseptic on his knuckles. He iced them for a few minutes, and when he was bored with that, went upstairs to change his clothes.

It had been so fucking easy to kidnap Martin.

All Douglas had to do was offer dinner at his place. He dropped a few hints he was lonely and wanted some company, and Martin, being the good friend he was, agreed. He came over in his van, bearing a bottle of sparkling cider. It was really sweet of him. Douglas escorted him into the kitchen and it was only then Martin realized something was a bit... off.

"I don't see dinner cooking," he said as he placed the bottle down on the counter, next to the wine glasses. He eyed the isolated, cool stove top. "Are you ordering something?"

"No."

"Oh. Then... are you going to cook right now? I'm really hungry, Douglas. I don't think I can wait another hour for food."

Douglas hummed. "You see that table there?" He pointed to the only table in the entire kitchen. It was a useless question, but he wanted an opening.

"You mean the _only_ table here?" Martin smiled at his own joke. "What about it?"

"I once skinned a woman alive on it."

And like that, the games began. Martin's smile slowly melted away just as the last portion of sun disappeared altogether from the horizon. The kitchen was darker now, and suddenly the silence was a lot more evident. "Douglas..." Martin started, swallowing. "That's... that's not funny."

Douglas shrugged after a moment of consideration. "It was to me, at the time. I kept thinking the table was gong to buckle under the violence of her thrashing, but it held. I like that table."

Martin backed away. Here in the kitchen, there was no other way out except through the door Douglas was currently blocking. There were two windows, both way too small for him to squeeze through. "I... I'd like to go home now."

"No, you're not going home. Never again."

Martin could've done several things in that moment. He could have turned around and grab one of the knives from the drawer. He could've grabbed a plate or even the bottle of cider to use to throw at Douglas, to stun him long enough to run past. Douglas learned from a very young age when people got scared, they panicked.

Martin panicked. He didn't grab a knife or blunt object to protect himself with. He suddenly dashed forward as if believing Douglas would let him past.

Douglas grabbed him around the waist, twisted him violently off his feet and practically body slammed him to the floor. "No!" Martin cried out weakly, struggling through the pain and the weight on top of him. "No, no, no, no, no, no-!"

A hand wrapped around his throat, right under his chin, and started to squeeze. Martin gasped. He kicked his legs out uselessly, still too weak to fight back. Slowly, his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Douglas meant to kill him right there. Hold his airway closed long enough to render him unconscious, then slip a plastic bag over his head to finish the job. The moment Martin went limp in Douglas' grip, Douglas let go.

He didn't know why he did it. He silently watched Martin for a few moments longer, observing his slow, ragged breath. Douglas moved his hand up from Martin's throat to his hair, gently running his fingers through the sweaty locks.

"Huh," Douglas said outloud to himself. "I don't want to kill you."

He really didn't. He had full intentions of killing Martin today. Planned it in the same way someone planned to make dinner. Pay bills, buy tomatoes, return library books, kill Martin, do laundry, clean out the car... It was really surprising Douglas didn't feel the urge anymore. That has never happened before.

Now question was, what to do with Martin? It's not as if Douglas could let him go. Frustrated, Douglas huffed and thought about what could be done. He felt Martin stir beneath him, and squeezed his neck again, releasing only when he felt Martin go limp again.

Douglas was going have to make a decision and soon. He couldn't spend the rest of the afternoon rendering Martin unconscious over and over again. He could actually kill him like that.

"Basement it is," Douglas decided finally. He moved, dragging the limp body up with him. Maybe in another few days the urge to kill will come back. He'll just have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serial Killer!Douglas is surprising loads of fun to write.


	3. Chapter 3

Carolyn was crying when Douglas walked in. Upon seeing him, she quickly ducked her head and dabbed her eyes, trying desperately to stop. "Oh, Douglas... um, you're here early."

He was. Personally he wanted an extra half hour of sleep but he needed to keep up appearances. "What happened?" He asked worryingly. "Did they find Martin? Is he...?"

Carolyn shook her head. "No... there's been no news."

Of course there's been no news. Douglas was not a amateur when it came to this. After shackling Martin in his basement, Douglas took his van to a public garage, found a random spot and left it there. It would literally sit there for years before someone discovered it.

Thankfully Martin also did not have the foresight to tell someone he was having dinner with Douglas. It was a bit of a shame as Douglas had a whole list of lies to use, but this was better. There was also an added bonus of it being finals week for the university students. None of the kids at Martin's housing area ever saw him leave.

So no one knew where Martin went, why, how or with whom. Martin really did have the worst luck.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? It means-"

"Douglas, it's been an entire week!" Carolyn said, tears gathering in her eyes again. "And so far there's been nothing. If he's been kidnapped, you'd think they would be asking for ransom by now. Oh-oh, I fear the worst. I can't help but wonder if he's hurt somewhere, unable to cry out for help-"

"Stop this." Douglas crossed the room and gently grasped Carolyn's hands. They shook under his palms. "You can't help Martin by worrying yourself sick. Alright?"

Carolyn sniffled, but nodded. "Yes, alright."

"That's a good girl." And because he knew he was able to, Douglas leaned forward and gently kissed her on the forehead. On any other day, such display of affection would have embarrassed them both. Today, Carolyn accepted the kiss with a small hum of appreciation.

It was nice to have friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Carolyn's worried about you," Douglas said. "I don't know, should I ask for ransom? It makes sense, I did kidnap an airline captain. The unfortunate thing is that would bring way too much attention to me. I don't mind if my occasional murder comes up in the news, but I have no desire to be branded as a terrorist. Hmmm? What do you think, Martin?"

Martin stared unhappily at his plate of baked chicken. Douglas decided to treat him after all that unfortunate business of punching him in the face the other day. But Martin was barely eating. He tore tiny strips of chicken off of the drumstick and silently chewed on it. Like a cow chewing its cud.

He said nothing to Douglas' question.

"Is something wrong?" Douglas asked.

That's when Martin slapped his hand out, smacking away the tray of food. Peas and carrots and bits of chicken scattered all over the floor.

" _Is something wrong?_ " Martin echoed back at him. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Well, it's an honest question-"

"Why are you doing this? Is this a game to you?" He grabbed the chain connecting him to the wall and rattled it. "Let me go!"

"Martin, you know you'll never go home-"

With a cry Martin grabbed at his hair, tugging sharply with two fistfuls. "Douglas, what did I _do_ to deserve this? Why are you punishing me?"

"You think I'm punishing you?"

"Why else are you doing this?"

"Well, it's not because I'm punishing you. Look, understand I didn't do this because I have some kind of a personal vendetta against you. I don't. I had full intentions of killing you and burying you in the field out back-"

Martin moaned.

"-but I didn't. And, frankly, it surprises me as well I didn't kill you. I only keep victims at most, two days. Any longer than that, and I risk exposure."

This actually felt nice. Douglas always read how serial killers advertised their crimes because they wanted attention, and that's how they got caught. Douglas kept his murders under the radar. That also means he never gets to talk about his murders, either. Sharing this information with Martin was quite therapeutic.

"Jesus Christ!" Martin cried out. "So you kidnapped me because... because..."

"Because I planned to kill you."

"Is that literally it? There's no reason why you do what you do, just because? "

Douglas shrugged. "Yeah."

The word hanged in the air as Martin stared, his mouth gaped open in disbelief. His face crumpled and suddenly he started crying, and he wailed. " _What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you doing this? There has to be a reason!"_

So many of Douglas' victims asked that. Why are you doing this? What did I do wrong? Douglas was not Hannibal Lector, he didn't go around killing people because they were rude to him. If he did, the bodies would pile up by the dozens.

However, he has killed out of anger. It wasn't pretty.

Douglas sighed. Martin was heaving, almost hyperventilating. His face was beet red, matching his hair and he started to cry again. It was sad to watch. "You're upset," Douglas said, getting up. "I'll come back when you've calmed down."

"You have to give me a reason!" Martin yelled at him from behind. "Douglas! Douglas! Give me a reason!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Extreme violence, gore, and body horror.

Martin had no idea how long he's been down in the basement. He could guess. Douglas brought him meals only twice a day, once in the morning before work and once more in the evening. Judging from how many times Douglas has done this, Martin estimated he's been missing for nearly two weeks now.

He screamed until his throat was bleeding red. He tugged at the chain around his ankle until nearly all the skin rubbed away. Mostly he sobbed till he was dying of thirst.

At least Douglas had the courtesy to leave a pitcher of water behind before he went to work. It could've been so easy to forget such a thing, allowing Martin to die from dehydration.

But Douglas didn't want Martin to die. No, that wasn't correct. He didn't _mean_ for Martin to _live_. Douglas was ready to carry out Martin's murder; he admitted it and spoke of it in great detail. He planned to suffocate Martin, dismember the body in the bathtub and bury the pieces in the field out back.

After hearing that gruesome explanation, Martin ended up scrambing across the floor for the chamber pot (a fucking chamber pot. Douglas wouldn't even grant him the dignity of using a toilet) and vomited into it. The horror of it all only spurred him to keep vomiting. How many people were buried in that field? How long will it take before someone discovered the bones, and how much long after for those bones to be identified?

Douglas even admitted he sometimes smashed the jaw bone in, shattering the teeth, to make identification through dental records impossible.

The worst thing about it all? Martin was not at all surprised to find out Douglas was a serial killer.

Constantly alone with his thoughts, Martin remembered a time when he believed Douglas had the ability to get away with murder. The man was too lucky, too smart, and only a fool would dare bet against him. With that voice, that ability to charm anyone, it wasn't that farfetched of an idea. When Martin brought this up with Douglas, both of them shared a laugh.

Martin also remembered after saying this, Douglas had a knowing smile on his lips. He was in a good mood for the rest of the day. Martin merely placed this as Douglas basking in having his ego stroked.

The fucking irony of it all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Martin was jostled out of his light nap by the sound of feet moving on the ceiling. With no books or tv to whittle away the hours, he mostly napped to pass the time. But even sleeping too much had its drawbacks. It gave him headaches, it made his mouth unbelievably dry, and with Douglas only allowing him to brush his teeth once a day, it was just an added torture.

The noise of the footsteps tredded across the floor high above, and Martin thought it was Douglas come home. He never came down to the basement immediately. He always took his time to take off his jacket and use the toilet first. Martin lowered his head back onto the bare mattress, wanting to doze until Douglas came down with food when his ears picked up another set of footsteps.

Good god, had Douglas brought home someone else? Martin sat up, straining to hear, and yes, there were two people walking around upstairs.

Immediately Martin was afraid it could Carolyn, maybe even Arthur. Martin didn't believe Douglas would be so cruel to kill a sixty year old woman, but if he was capable to skinning a person alive, a man like that was capable of anything.

The feet padded across the hallway, into the kitchen, back through the hallway, and then back to the kitchen. Martin waited, waited to hear the thump of their body falling to the floor. That poor person, Martin had no way of signalling them. He had screamed his voice hoarse, and there was nothing down here capable of making a noise loud enough to be heard through the sound proofing foam.

The feet moved to the basement door. Martin's heart sped up. He got to his feet as more sound carried down. Whoever they were, they were rattling the lock. There was a sudden noise of something heavy falling to the ground, then the door opened.

"What do you think he has down here?" Said a man's voice. "Guys like him probably have expensive wine bottles."

"Aw, fuck," said another voice. "I hope not. I don't want to carry bottles to the fucking car."

Tears sprung to Martin's eyes. They were theives. He couldn't believe his luck, his saviours were going to be thieves. " _Help...!"_ He croaked out. His voice was barely above a whisper and his throat burned. " _Please...!"_

"What the fuck was that?"

They came thundering down the stairs, shining their torches in Martin's direction.

Martin closed his eyes from the sudden flash of light, throwing up his hand to shield them. "Aw, shit, Tom!" Said one of them. "He's chained to the wall!"

"Help me," Martin said as he lowered his hand. "Please..."

There were two men. A blonde man who looked about Martin's age, and the other was slightly older and bald. The bald one carried a set of bolt cutters.

"Oh fuck," said the bald one, coming close. "Are you alright?"

"Please, get me out of here..."

"Right, mate, right. Don't worry, we'll get you out of here." He stepped forward with the cutters. He must've cut the lock on the basement door. "Dave, go upstairs and call for help."

Dave didn't move. He was just as horrified as Tom upon seeing Martin chained, but a different set of panic had him suttering. "But if I call the police... we... you and I..."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tom hissed at him. " _There's a man chained to a wall!_ Who fucking cares if we get arrested too! Go upstairs and call for help!"

Dave didn't look happy about it, but he turned and ran back up the stairs.

Martin was sobbing by now. He was so grateful he didn't care how embarrassing he looked. "Thank you..." he kept muttering over and over again. "Thank you... my colleague, he... he..."

"Don't worry, don't worry," Tom said as he slipped the bolt cutters over the chain. "I'm going to get you out of here."

The chain itself wasn't very thick. It was painted with a white coating to make the clinking noise of the metal softer. With a grunt, Tom snapped the chain right off the wall.

There was a still nearly a foot of it dragging behind Martin's shackled ankle, but he was officially free. With a cry of relief he stumbled forward and for the first time in two weeks, moved beyond his little area of the basement. "Thank you... thank you..."

"Stop moving, let let me that extra piece off of you-"

"Later. I just want to get out of here." He was already moving towards the stairs. The whole thing was so overwhelming, Martin started to feel lightheaded. He kept stumbling till Tom grasped him gently by the shoulders and helped him to climb. It was the most exercise Martin had in days and his muscles ached from the sudden forgotten movement. He didn't care. He'll crawl on his hands and knees to get out of here. They got to the top of the stairs and with a final burst of speed, Martin practically threw himself out into the hallway, nearly crashing against the opposite wall.

Holy fuck. He was out. He was out and he was free. He couldn't believe it, he was finally going to go home. Martin pressed his forehead against the coolness of the wall, waiting for the dizzyness to pass. This time when he cried, it was from happiness.

He heard Tom wail. "Oh, Jesus fuck!"

Martin turned his head to look.

Standing at the end of the hallway, near the staircase leading up to the second floor, was Douglas. His back was to them, and at the sound of Tom's cry, he slowly turned around. First Martin saw the side of his face spray painted in red. There was so much blood on his face it dripped off in fat chunks, splashing onto his collar. His entire front was soaked through, sticking to his chest. As he turned, he revealed in his right hand a large, red stained knife. In his left, clutched by the meat of his fist-

Was Dave's head.

Tom screamed his horror. One of Dave's eyes was half open, the other closed, and his mouth hanged down from the weight of its own jaw. His body laid crumpled on the floor, his phone still in his hand. From where he stood, Martin barely made out the first two digits to the emergency line on the screen.

"The back door," Martin said, grabbing Tom's shirt and haulting him back. "Let's go, let's go!"

It felt like Martin was moving in slow motion. The back door was right there, only a few feet away and yet it was literally the longest steps Martin has ever taken in his life. Every second was precious, every movement maticulous. If he screwed up now, trip or stumble, he was dead.

The back had two locks. The basic twist handle lock that came with most doors, and an installed chain lock. Martin did them both swiftly, surprising himself by his own movements, and hauled the door wide open. There was a stupid, poorly coordinated moment in which both he and Tom, desperate to get out, bottlenecked at the door. They kept pushing forward, and Tom popped out first.

Martin almost fell forward but Tom hauled him up by his arm and kept dragging him forward. "Move! Move!"

The field before them was flat, opened wide with no trees in sight, and covered in overgrown dead grass. There were bodies underneath this, Martin thought. He was nearly blinded by his own tears. He was going to run over the graves of murdered men and women.

His muscles were screaming from the sudden exertion, threatening to cramp. He ran harder he has ever run in his life. His heart was pounding, whiting out the noise of his breath, his cries, focusing on getting away. The excess chain on his ankle made it difficult to run, whipping forward with every large stride.

Tom was on Martin's left, running faster than him, gaining distance with every step. That was fine. As long as they get away, get to the police-

In one instance, Tom was there, off to the side, in full view. In the next, something _snapped_ up from the ground, grabbing Tom around his leg, crushing it between its jaws. There was splatter of blood and with an anguish scream, Tom fell to the ground, grabbing at his mangled leg.

Martin skidded to a stop. Tom had stepped onto a bear trap.

"Holy..." Martin was unable to finish that sentence. He made no effort to move to help Tom who was trying desperately to pull open the jaws of the bear trap. Tom was straining to open the trap, his fingers cutting themselves on the jagged metal.

Martin couldn't take another step forward. The grass was too tall, he couldn't see the ground not even five feet in front of him. He could walk right into a trap himself.

He couldn't believe it. Douglas had planned for possible escapees. That meant something like this happened before. That-

There was a crack like thunder, and Tom's head snapped back and exploded. Martin yelled and flinched back. He twisted around to see Douglas lowering the barrell of a smoking shotgun.

Martin threw his hands up in a desperate plea. "Douglas, wait-!"

Douglas stepped forward and struck out, smacking the butt of the shotgun right into Martin's face. Pain unlike anything Martin's ever felt before overtook his entire being and he fell to his knees, cupping his face in agony. He didn't know if he was screaming or crying or if his face fell off entirely. _Something_ was bleeding because he could feel it seeping in between his fingers.

His right hand was suddenly jerked back behind him, and then his left. He gave out a confused yell as his wrists were forcefully crossed behind his back. There was a familiar zipping noise, and a second later Martin's wrists were being crushed together by a single piece of hard plastic. Douglas had zip-tied him.

"For this," Douglas hissed, grabbing Martin by the rough of his neck, forcing him to his feet. "No dessert for an entire _week_. Now, move!"


	5. Chapter 5

This was NOT how Douglas wanted to spend his evening. He wanted to take a hot bath, enjoy a hot cup of tea, watch a little telly and turn in early. Maybe when he gave Martin his dinner, he would have offered a cup as well. Lord knows that boy needed it. After spending the day dealing with Arthur's non-stop whimpering over Martin's disappearance, Douglas had been looking forward to a relaxing evening.

Instead, he was going to spend it hauling two bodies to his downstairs bathtub to dispose of them.

The bald one Douglas shot out in the field was not a thin man. He had a belly on him, some muscle definition, and having to drag that damn bloodied corpse over a hundred feet was going to be backbreaking. On top of that, Douglas would have to bury the splattered remains of that man's brain, splash the area with water to wash away the blood, and reset the bear trap.

AFTER THAT, Douglas had to deal with the goddamn corpse inside his HOUSE. There was so much blood soaking onto the floor and wallpaper, Douglas was going have to replace everything. But he couldn't clean it right away, oh no. First he had to dispose of the car those idiots had left parked in front of his house.

He supposed he could just haul the bodies into the car, drive it out to some remote area and light it on fire. Unfortunately once the bodies were recovered from the flames, it was going to be pretty obvious it was murder. Fire cannot decapitate a person.

For now, until Douglas thought of something better, he parked the car at the post office. Someone was bound to notice sitting there and soon it would get towed away. That could be a blessing or a curse.

By the time Douglas was done moving the car, hauling the bodies into the downstairs bathtub, and cleaning up the majority of the blood and gore, nearly three hours had passed. THIS was why murders had to be planned. Cleanup took so much time and effort, and Douglas was not getting any younger.

Then there was the question on what to do with Martin.

Douglas could've killed him. _Should've_ killed him, but then he would have to deal with three corpses to dispose of instead of two. In that moment out in that field, as Douglas strode over to Martin, he could have easily shoved the gun into Martin's face and pulled the trigger.

Except that didn't happen. Instead, Douglas brought Martin back to the house, back into the basement, ziptied his ankles together and left him there. Even worse, as Douglas trudged tiredly to the basement door, he started to feel _bad_ for doing so.

Douglas clicked on the light, and was glad to hear the soft, pitiful whine from Martin. Good, that meant Douglas didn't accidentally kill him with that sucker punch to the face.

Martin laid in the same spot Douglas had left him. There was a small puddle of congealed blood around his head, his face had swelled up to twice its size, and his hands were dangerously purple from lack of blood. The sight of it churned Douglas' stomach. This was unnecessarily cruel. He pulled out a knife and bent down to Martin's body.

"I'm going to cut the zipties," he said. "Don't move."

Martin whimpered but did as he was told.

First he cut the ties on Martin's wrists. Martin only made a brief noise, but as Douglas gently manuevered his arms from his back, he cried out in pain. He cradled his purple hands to his chest while Douglas cut the ties on his ankles and also unlocking the last bit of chain.

"I'm going to get some water and antiseptic," Douglas said, running a hand through Martin's sweaty, bloody locks. Martin flinched under his fingers. "I'll be right back."

Douglas came back as quickly as he could bearing a bowl of warm water, gauze, butterfly strips, a bottle of aspirin, a cold pack, and a bottle of water. Despite having his arms full, it didn't feel like he brought enough.

At some point Martin dragged himself from his spot on the floor to the mattress. It was almost a pitiful sight to see the dry blood smeared across the ground. Douglas rolled up his sleeves got to work.

His back was aching terribly by the time he was finished cleaning the blood off Martin's face, putting the butterfly strips across his gashed forehead, cleaned his wounds, and wrapped his limbs. "Here," Douglas said, pressing the cold pack to the sweeling side of Martin's face. "This should help."

Martin was quiet and still the during the entire process. The only indication he was awake was the occasional flinch or whimper of pain. When he didn't move to grasp the cold pack, Douglas physically pulled up his arm, curling his hand around the pack.

Great. Okay. Douglas was more or less done at this point. Now he could go upstairs, shower in his prviate, non-corpse-filled bathroom, and wash away all the blood from underneath his fingertips and hair. After that... ugh, he didn't feel like making dinner now. He should probably get some Chinese take-away or something. Tomorrow he then could focus on disposing of the bodies.

Martin said something Douglas didn't catch. "What was that?"

"They came to help me," Martin repeated, a little louder. His voice was sore and cracked. "And you killed them."

Douglas sighed. "Yes, I did."

"You could've let us go. You could've ran. I know you have the ability and the means. There was no need to kill them."

"I had every reason to kill them. They broke into my home. They tried to take what's _mine_."

"I'm..." Martin sniffled. "I'm not a thing. I'm not _your_ thing."

"This is not a debate, Martin. This is not something you're going to change my mind about. You are mine. Period. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"Never," Martin croaked. "I will never..."

He trailed off. Douglas waited a moment longer, wondering if there was going to more defiance from him. When none came, Douglas stood up, huffing in disbelief. His back screamed in agony. "I'm not going to chain you and irritate your wounds, but don't think I'm giving you permission to try to escape again. I'm going to take a shower and then get dinner ready. Can I trust you to be good during that time?"

Martin grunted and gave him the middle finger.

Had Martin been anybody else, Douglas would have stepped onto that hand, crushing the finger under his shoe. Perhaps he would have cut it off. Cut off _both_ middle fingers so Douglas wouldn't have to put up with this bullshit later on.

Instead, Douglas said, "There's some water to drink and a bottle of aspirin there. I'll be back later."


	6. Chapter 6

The hot water stung sharply, making Martin hiss. It seeped into his wounds, washing away the blood and two weeks of grime, tears and sweat. Every drip felt like tiny, biting pinches, and yet Martin relished in the pain, accepting it in the same way a boxer relished sore knuckles. It felt good to get cleaned.

Martin achingly opened his mouth, collecting water, rinsed it around his teeth and spat it back out. His swollen eye hurt the most, and though the spray wasn't that harsh, the tenderness of his skin couldn't allow direct contact. He mostly kept his head down, the shower head positoned directly over his shoulders.

To the side was a bar of blue soap, a bottle of apple shampoo and apple conditioner. There was also a can of shaving cream and a razor. Martin scoffed. What, Douglas didn't use a straight razor? Surely he could use it to do two things at once: shave and cut people's throats. Still, Martin thought, dragging a hand over his chin and feeling stubble growing in, he needed to shave. Douglas kept giving him disposable safety razors. Those fucking things kept cutting his cheeks.

The privilege of getting cleaned was something he was never going to take for granted again. Nearly three weeks of wearing the same clothes, the same goddamn _boxers_ , was absolute torture. He didn't know why it took Douglas this long to allow Martin to take a shower. This morning Douglas came down the basement stairs with the breakfast tray in hand, eyed Martin's bloody clothing, and announced it was time for a shower.

Martin was going to take the longest fucking shower of his life. Douglas did say, 'take your time' and that's exactly what Martin planned to do. Use so much water, Douglas was going to look at his water bill and weep.

Martin sniffed the apple scented shampoo and poured a generous amount into his palm. He lathered it into his hair, feeling the excess slide off and drip onto the floor. He would never be this wasteful back at his own flat. He saved every penny he could.

The thought of his own home brought a sudden sob to Martin's lips. Yes, it was small and cramped and every night the students kept him awake with their stupid music and chattering, but it was HIS. His bed, his space. He had felt safe there. He wanted to go home so badly, it hurt worse than his eye. He missed his family, his job, and the worst fucking thing about all of this? He also missed _Douglas_.

He missed the Douglas he used to play wordgames with, who fought over the cheese tray with. Martin didn't want this fucking sociopath who chopped people's heads off, he wanted his _friend_. More than once Martin would catch himself thinking Douglas will come save him, Douglas will think something clever and get him out of this.

Martin didn't dare cry. His swollen eye hurt way too much to handle even the tiny droplets of salty tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Douglas gave him simple pieces of clothing. A dark blue shirt, trousers, boxers that come from a package, and a single pair of socks. They were nice enough clothes, and Martin supposed he should be grateful he was wearing new things, and not his own clothes, recently washed.

Martin walked out of the bathroom and into Douglas' master bedroom. Douglas was laying on the bed, the pillows up against the headboard, reading a book. He looked up as Martin came out. "You look nice. How do you feel?"

"Clean," Martin said flatly.

"Hmmmm... give me a moment to finish this chapter, and then I'll take you back to the basement."

He went back to his book, leaving Martin to stand there awkwardly. The door to the bedroom was _right there_ , a direct line in front of Martin. He could sprint forward, and get to the stairs in mere seconds. By the time Douglas scrambled up off the bed to grab him, Martin would already be downstairs at the front door.

He glanced nervously at Douglas. There was no gun in sight. Even he had one stashed away, it'll still take him two seconds to grab it. Two seconds was long enough to get away.

Make a run for it. Go. GO.

His whole body was shaking. This was his chance and he couldn't bring himself to do it. Move, you stupid motherfucker. GO. "I don't want to go back into the basement."

Douglas didn't even look up from his book. "Hmmm?"

"I don't want to go back to the basement," Martin said again. "Please don't put me down there."

"I have no other place to put you. I can't have you escaping again."

"I won't. I promise."

"I've heard that one before."

Martin kept staring at the door. "Then how about this? We play a word game."

Curious, Douglas lowered his book just enough to give Martin a look.

"If I win," Martin said. "I get out of the basement."

"And if I win?"

"I'll go back into the basement without complaint."

"Hmm... alright," Douglas bookmarked his spot and placed the book aside. "What game should we play?"

"An animal game. I name an animal, and then using the last letter of that animal, you name something else. For example, if I say cat, you name an animal with a T name, like a turtle. You only have five seconds to come up with a new animal."

"This sounds like something you'd play with your siblings during car rides."

"I did."

"Ah. Are we beginning now?"

"Elephant," Martin said.

"Turtle," Douglas said, smirking.

"Eagle."

"Eastern box turtle."

"C'mon, Douglas!"

"Still counts."

"Uh... elk."

"King kobra."

"Alligator."

"Rhino."

"Ox."

"Uh... uh... I..."

"I win."

"No, Douglas, that's not fair! There are no animals out there with a X name!"

"Your rules, not mine."

"Best two out of three."

" _Martin_ ," Douglas snapped. "You said you wouldn't complain. I-"

Martin suddenly took off. He ran for the open bedroom door, something he should've done the moment he walked out of the bathroom. It wouldn't even take ten seconds to get to the bottom floor, not-

TWANG

At the last second Martin caught glimpse of the wire carefully strung across the door frame. His eyes picked up on the thin wire, the light reflecting upon it just enough for him to register at the last possible moment what it was. His body didn't react in time and his leg connected to it.

He fell, smacking his face down upon the carpeted floor, right where Douglas had struck him earlier with the shotgun.

"Now I have to clean blood off the upstairs carpet as well," Douglas said sighing as Martin curled into a ball, screaming his agony into the palm of his hands.


	7. Chapter 7

It took an agonizing three full days to rid of the bodies. It was just pure luck Carolyn only scheduled flights across short distances. Douglas suspected she did it to keep close to home, just in case Martin was miraculously found. If Douglas was forced to fly overseas, the bodies in the tub would've rotted by the time he came back. His large freezer has been on the fritz for a while and he hasn't made the time to replace the necessary parts.

Then there was the problem with Martin.

After watching two men die horrific, bloody deaths, Douglas thought for sure it would discourage Martin from ever trying to escape again. Except it had the opposite affect. It made him more angry, more defiant towards Douglas. The incident with the trip wire was just the beginning.

Martin tried to use the (empty) chamber pot to break down the basement door, forcing Douglas to chain him again.

From there, he tried to steal one of the chopsticks from his meals and use it to pick the lock.

After that, he used his teeth to tear through the fabric of his mattress, wrenched out one of the springs, and tried to use that.

If Douglas wasn't so annoyed with having to haul away everything from the basement, he would be rather proud of Martin and his creativity. The last victim who tried to escape used their own blood as lubricant against the cuff, and ended up accidentally cutting an artery. To this day Douglas had no idea how he managed to do that.

Still, Douglas didn't like Martin was getting more and more aggressive. Martin must've realized on some level Douglas didn't want to kill him and was taking full advantage of that. As careful as Douglas was, he was afraid it was only a matter of time before Martin slipped through his defenses and escapes. If Douglas didn't anticipate his home being broken into, he wouldn't be able to anticipate Martin.

After spend the last few weeks taking care of the man chained to his basement, putting on a brave face for Carolyn and Arthur, Douglas needed a goddamn break.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were a few reasons why Douglas stopped drinking. His daughter said she didn't like the smell of beer. His (second) wife didn't care for his personality when he got drunk. He admitted bought alcohol way too much and way too often. And one night about twelve years ago, he got so drunk, he stupidly told one of his drinking buddies about his night hobbies.

His friend William was drunk as well and wouldn't be able to recall the previous night, but Douglas couldn't take any chances on that. Poor ol' William was found in the river a week later, his body too bloated to help detectives.

Douglas had no intentions of drinking that much. He wanted a single pint of beer, listen to the ambiance of the pub and relax.

He was only through half of his drink, thinking about ordering something greasy when somebody slid into the chair next to his. "Buy me a drink?"

For a startling second, Douglas thought it was Martin sitting next to him. The man had red hair and a thin face, but that's where his resemblance of Martin ended. His red hair was darker, his freckles more evident, and his pretty eyes were closer to grey than blue. His lips were thinner, and his eyelashes were long. He was so pretty, had he worn a long wig, Douglas might've mistaken him for a woman. "Alright," Douglas said. "What are you having?"

The man smirked. "The same thing you're having. I'm Antony," he said as Douglas waved down the bartender. "What's your name?"

"I'm Steven," Douglas said, not wishing to give his name away. As much as Douglas liked to stroke his own ego about his appearance, it was also a curse. It was hard to stay anonymous when people remembered the tall, handsome man with the deep, beautiful voice.

"Thanks for the drink, Steven," Antony said, purposely bumping his shoulder against Douglas'. "May I ask what you're doing here on this fine evening?"

"Needed a night out."

"I see. Trouble at home?"

"You could say that."

"Poor man," Antony suddenly leaned in close. His hand curled around Douglas' thigh. "Would you like to go somewhere private to talk about it?"

 _Wow,_ he worked fast. Antony's hand was nowhere near Douglas' crotch, but Douglas' body was certainly responding to the touch. A tingle of excitement went up his back, reminding him exactly how long its been since he was last with someone.

Though pretty, Antony was a decent-looking man. He was warm, he was willing, so why the hell not? Douglas was nearly done with his pint and he nowhere near drunk. He needed something a little extra to finish off this evening. Douglas nodded his head towards the back. "Toilets?"

Antony grinned, showing off his pearly whites. He quickly took several deep swallows of his beer, swiftly finishing off two-thirds of his glass and stood up.

A minute later Antony was crowding up against Douglas in the handicap stall, kissing him fiercely, while grinding his hips against his.

It was... it was okay, Douglas thought. Antony was an unnecessarily wet kisser, and the sensation of of the trouser zipper digging into Douglas' crotch was not the greatest feeling. But Douglas gave the man credit; what Antony lacked in technique he made up for in enthusiasm. It was nice to simply get on with it.

"What do you want?" Antony breathed against Douglas' mouth. His hands were trying to undo his belt. "Do you want to do it in my arse? Want to fuck my face? Can I fuck _your_ face?"

As wonderful as blowjob sounded, Antony seemed like the type of person who used teeth as a way of foreplay. "Do you have a condom?"

"In my back pocket." Antony twisted around, placing his hands flat against the wall, angling his ass out invitingly. His trousers were already loose, exposing white, pale skin.

Douglas slipped his hand inside Antony's pants, grabbing him, while sneaking out the condom from the back pocket. "Do you have lube?"

"I like it dry."

"Jesus fuck..."

God, this was exactly what Douglas needed. No need to be gentle, no preparation required. He was going to fuck this tight little ass raw, make this man squeal. Douglas bent his head and began giving Antony's biting kisses on his neck as he pulled down his own trousers to slip on the condom. He grasped his hardening cock.

Suddenly in that moment, he felt the urge to kill Martin.

Douglas stopped kissing Antony's neck. He slowly moved back, licking his lips, staring down at the top of Antony's head, surprised by the sudden urge. After three weeks of feeding Martin, talking to him, throwing out his shit, _now_ Douglas wanted to kill him?

"Sorry, have to dash."

Douglas tossed aside the already torn condom package, stepped back and tucked himself back in. He was so glad to be wearing jeans.

" _What_?" Antony squealed. He may not looked like Martin, but that squeal certainly sounded a lot like him. " _That's it? You're leaving me?"_

"As lovely as this would've been, I'm afraid you rekindled my interest in the special person back home. I must go to them."

Antony tossed his head back and groaned. "Arrgh! He better be worth it."

"Oh yes," Douglas grinned. He could already imagine the taste of blood on his tongue. "He is."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Attempted rape, sexual assualt

Douglas' whole body tingled with excitement, eager to get home. Killing the two thieves had been out of anger, out of desperation, and it didn't fill his appetite. It was like having a snack to strive off the hunger, ignoring it while it rumbled deep your belly, reminding you you were still empty. Martin was a buffet and Douglas was ready to _eat_.

Douglas had no idea what he wanted to do. Images flashed through his mind, each one considered carefully to ensure He was going to get most for his buck. After nearly a month with Martin, this needed to be special, to last. He didn't want it over so soon. And he was afraid as soon as he got home, blood lust will overcome him and he was going to descend upon Martin, tearing into him until there was nothing left but a twitching, bloody mess.

Both options sounded _so_ appealing, though.

He got home in record time. He felt high, his whole body vibrating with excitement. It was a damn good thing there was no one else on his street otherwise his neighbours would be witness to the way he stalked to his front door like a caveman. He got into his house, making sure to lock the door with the new bolt he installed. He had yet to remove the last portions of blood stains on his wall and floor. In the darkness, the splatter stains merely looked like shadows, adding to the atmosphere. Douglas went to the kitchen first.

There was a selection of large carving knives to choose from. Many had been recently shrapened and were ready for use. Douglas instead chose a small, five inch blade from a wooden block. This blade was straight, designed to cut small fruit like strawberries and bananas. Douglas had no idea what he was going to do with it ultimately, but it felt right in his hand.

He went into the basement.

From atop of the stairs he could hear Martin gently snoring. On their many trips overseas, Douglas learned Martin was a very deep sleeper. It was done mostly to ensure Martin gave himself a standard nine hours of sleep. Only he would train himself to be become a better sleeper for aeroplane standards.

He didn't even stir when the light was turned on. Douglas quietly crept down the stairs, and stood at the foot of Martin's futon, staring down at him.

To give his ankles a break, Douglas chained Martin's wrists instead. These cuffs were smaller, allowing him to sleep comfortably without cutting into his wrists. The length was significantly shorter; the chain was only three feet long compared to the meter length ankle chain.

The swelling on Martin's face has long left, leaving behind a colourful canvas of bruises on his skin. Douglas admired them. His own face had a few scars from unfortunate shaving cuts (and a from a few of his victims getting in a lucky punch.) Martin's cheeks were surprisingly devoid of scars. Like Antony, Martin was too pretty for his own good. He needed something to upset that perfect veil of skin.

Still unsure on what to do, Douglas stepped upon the futon, bent down to his knees and stradled Martin's body. The shifting of the futon stirred Martin from his slumber. He made a questioning noise, and wearily opened his eyes.

The moment he registered Douglas' presence, he startled violently. Douglas grabbed him and hauled him down, pulling the chains taunt, forcing Martin's arms over his head. "No-! Douglas!"

Martin was kicking wildly, trying to press his feet down to gain traction to pull himself back up, but he was wearing socks. His feet kept slipping against the futon's material.

Grabbing a fist full of red hair, Douglas jerked Martin's head back and leaned forward, pressing the knife against that long, pale neck.

He held it there, right above the jugular, relishing the moment.

Then that moment turned into thirty seconds.

And then into a minute.

He held it there for so long, even Martin blinked in confusion, waiting. "Douglas...?"

Douglas didn't understand. Isn't this what he wanted? The need was still there, the excitment bubbling in his chest, but it wasn't spurring him on to cut this pale throat. It was... it was...

Huh.

He didn't think. He moved in closer, as if about to whisper something in Martin's ear, opened his mouth and dragged his tongue from Martin's jaw, across his unmarked cheek, up to the curve of his eye.

Martin shuddered.

"My apologies," Douglas immediately said. "I didn't mean-"

He may have not meant it, but that didn't stop him from doing it again, licking Martin's throat, then briefly suckling his ear.

"Douglas, stop!" Martin cried out, jerking. "Stop! Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," Douglas admitted, moving back. He released his hold on Martin's hair and pulled the knife away. He didn't move from his position of sitting on Martin's hips. "I'm sorry, I've never... I don't do this."

"I'm not a rapist," he clarified. "I have never forced myself on someone."

It was the truth. No matter how attractive or beautiful his victims were, Douglas never touched them. He prided himself from ever crossing that line.

"O-oh..." Martin said. A few tears dribbled out of his eyes. "Alright...g-get off me then."

Douglas didn't move.

"Douglas," Martin said again. "Get off me. Get off!"

"Martin, I want you to say something. I want you to say, this isn't my fault."

"What? I..."

"Say it, Martin. _This isn't my fault._ "

"This... this isn't my fault."

"Good. _I am not to blame._ "

"I am not to blame..."

" _Nothing I could've said or done would have prevented this."_

"Douglas... what are you planning to do...?"

The question went unanswered, but Martin understood enough. He shook his head and started struggling with renewed force. "No... No! No!"

Douglas waited him out, letting him struggle and squirm, expending all his energy until he fell limp. He was sobbing openly now, burying his face into the crook of his elbow. Douglas carded his fingers through Martin's hair. "I didn't plan this," he said. "Whatever happens next, just remember you had no choice, nor did I give you one."

"NO! Don't do this, don't..." Martin heaved, his eyes darting around rapidly desperately, trying to look for an escape. As Douglas bent down to kiss him, he suddenly gasped out, "Alligator."

Douglas stopped. "What?"

"The animal game," Martin said. "If... if I win, you get off me."

"I'm not in the mood to play. And I always win-"

" _If I win_... you... you get off me."

Douglas was quiet for a few seconds. "What if I win?"

"Then..." Martin swallowed, gathering breath. "I won't struggle."

"I could take what I want, you know," Douglas said. "You didn't keep your prmoise the last time."

Martin said nothing to that. He was trembling under Douglas' hands, tears still flowing freely down his bruised, blushing cheeks. After a moment, Douglas sighed and leaned back. "Rat."

"Ter... terrapin," Martin said.

"Narwhale."

"Elephant."

"Turtle."

They were falling right back into the old pattern of the first game. Was Martin trying to catch him? "Eagle."

"Eastern Box Turtle."

"Elk."

"King Kobra."

Douglas made a face. Martin had already said alligator. "Aardvark."

"Kudu!"

"What's a kudu?"

"It's an antelope!"

That was going to be Googled later, but for now, Douglas tried to think of an animal with a U name. "Uh... uh..."

"I win," Martin said quietly.

So he did. Douglas could ignore that, like Martin did before, and simply continue. He was under no obligation to be considerate or gentle. He's spent the last few weeks befuddled by his own inability to kill Martin, and now he's finally got an idea why he couldn't, he was just going to stop? Maybe once Douglas finally indulged, he could finally kill the man.

"Alright..." Douglas said. With a grunt he got to his feet, allowing Martin to curl in on himself. "I suppose what's fair is fair."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised how many of you liked the previous chapter. I honestly thought I would lose readers, not gain such thoughtful reviews. You guys rock.

_Lesser kudus are found in acacia and commiphora thornbush in arid savannas; they rely on thickets for security and are rarely found in open or scattered bush. Greater kudus are found in woodlands and bushlands._

Douglas stared at the Wikipedia description, frowning. He'd been hoping Martin was lying about the animal, but he knew Martin had not; he could never be that creative. Kudu. What a stupid, silly name.

"What are you looking there, Douglas?" Arthur asked. He placed down a mug of coffee for Douglas on the table, then took a seat next to him. He leaned over to see the picture on Douglas' phone screen. "What is that?"

"This here is a kudu," Douglas said. He angled his phone so Arthur could get a better look "An African Antelope."

"Ah. Aren't... all antelopes from Africa? Seems kind of pointless to call it an 'African Antelope' when all the antelopes are already from Africa."

"Hmmm... good point."

"Why are you looking at it?"

"I was thinking about the last word game I played with Martin," Douglas said as he continued to scroll though the Wikipedia page. Would it be considered cheating if Douglas looked up animals with U names? "This was one of the animals he came up with. I thought he was lying."

Arthur bowed his head. "I miss him."

"I know you do, Arthur. Has there been any word on the investigation?"

"I think so! Mum's talking to that nice Inspector right now!"

Douglas startled, his phone slipping through his fingers. The phone struck his thigh before clattering noisily to the ground. He cursed and bent down to retrieve it. "Inspector McCormick is here?"

"Yeah! He called mum this morning. He wanted to know if he could talk to all of us here in the office."

McCormick was the inspector assigned to Martin's disappearance. Douglas had hoped the police would have simply written Martin's case off as a missing person, but due to his status as an airline captain, they took the case more seriously. After a quick internet search, it was revealed McCormick was an average inspector. He solved a few murders, stopped a few gang fights, but his accomplishments were nothing of worthy recognition.

If he asked to talk to them all at the same time, that means McCormick _found_ something.

It was another ten minutes till Carolyn walked into the MJN office with Inspector McCormick following closely behind. Douglas was barely out of his chair when Carolyn grabbed him by the arms and said hurridly, "They found Martin's van."

Douglas had left the van in the public garage so long ago, he almost forgot about it. But it's not like they could use the van to pin Douglas to the crime. It was common knowledge he and Arthur had both driven the vehicle. If they found fingerprints or DNA, it was explained away easily.

"They did?" Arthur gasped. "That's wonderful news! But wait, what about Martin? I mean, was he with his van...?"

McCormick closed the office door. He was a man in his late forties, of average height and built. _Average_ was the word to use here to describe him. He wasn't ugly, but he wasn't handsome. He wasn't fat, but he wasn't skinny either. Like his career, he too was quite forgettable. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to tell you this in person before the news got out."

"News?" Douglas said. He didn't need to act confused. "What news?"

"It's true, we did find Martin's van. It was parked in a public garage. One of Martin's old clients saw the van and called his phone, hoping to arrange a job. Martin's mother was the one who answered and she then contacted us with the location. If you're wondering if we found Martin, that's a no. There's nothing in his van indicating why he parked there or where he went."

"Then why are you here?' Carolyn demanded. Tears were gathering in her eyes. "Surely there's more to it."

"There is, Miss Knapp-Shappey. After investigating further, we found Martin's van is not the only abandoned vehicle in the garage. So far, seven vehicles in the garage have been linked to missing persons. This morning, we found two more. I am sorry to say this, but we believe Martin's been kidnapped by a serial killer."

A deadly silence settled on the room. Carolyn kept opening and closing her mouth, trying to say something but couldn't. Arthur sat down, and for the first time since Douglas has known him, lost all emotion on his face. There was no anger, no sadness, just a void as he raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing it like he had a headache.

Douglas has always known this day would come. Something would shift out of his favour, slowly twisting the arrow to point to him. But it wasn't there yet, giving Douglas this rare opportunity to dig deeper. "You said kidnapped," Douglas said, straining his voice to sound worried. "Are you under the impression Martin's still alive?"

"Maybe," McCormick said. "We're still putting together a psych profile, but given what we know, I... do not hold hope."

Now that was interesting. Douglas never kept his victims alive longer than a week. Exactly what did they find to determine Douglas was the type of serial killer who kept his victims alive?

Arthur's head suddenly snapped up. "Cameras," he said. "Surely there has to be security-"

"There are CTVs, but they're mostly for show," McCormick said, sighing. "The owner didn't want to pay for real security, so we don't have a visual of the person or persons who dropped the vehicles off."

It was exactly for that reason Douglas chose that particular garage. It had been easy to spot the fake cameras the first time around and for the past several years, nothing has changed. Honestly, Douglas had no idea how many cars he's hidden in there. He didn't keep trophies or an official count.

McCormick continued. "I wanted to tell you this in person because one of the garage employees became a little zealous when he overheard some of the police talking. He sold the serial killer theory to a local news station and tonight, they're going to give a report on it. I didn't want you to find out like that."

"Right, because this is so much better," Carolyn snapped. "My airline captain may have been murdered by a deranged psychopath and your biggest worry is the press!"

"Miss Knapp-Shappey-"

"Oh, just go! I don't want hear anymore!"

McCormick stepped forward like he wanted to say something more, but Douglas placed a hand on his shoulder, halting him. "It's probably best you leave, Inspector," Douglas said. "We... we need to mourn."

"I understand. You have my number if you have any questions..?"

Douglas was going have to fucking kill this man. "I'll call if I do."


	10. Chapter 10

Martin always thought the worst thing that could ever happen to him was crashing the plane.

Not specifically Gerti. In his dark fantasy he feared he would be responsible for the worst aeroplane crash in history. He imagined the plane filled with grandmothers, puppies, babies and famous film stars. His parents would be on board as well, including all his old flight teachers and the first girl he kissed, Denise Cobbler. He'd crash not due to the fault of the plane, but due to his own incompetance. He would forget to check the fuel, the wind gauge, or... or something. His idocy would bring about a tragedy worse than the Titanic. The name Martin Crieff would go down in history as a synonym for 'fuck-up.'

This used to be his biggest fear. Now? He didn't know.

Martin pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The shackles around his wrists shifted, digging into the fresh bruises.

Douglas tried to rape him the other night. Rape him.

If Martin had not thought up of the animal game, Douglas would have gone through with it. That tactic was not going to last. It was a damn miracle Martin had even won that round. Next time Douglas was going to be ready; he'd probably already memorized the entire animal encyclopedia. That was assuming Douglas would even play. As he said last time, "I'm not in the mood."

How does one go about preparing themselves to be raped? Was there like, a five stages of grieving sort of thing?

"Nothing I could've said or done would have prevented this," Martin unintentionally echoed. A second later he realized what he just said and flinched, grabbing at his hair in utter humiliation. This was really going to happen. Douglas was going to rape him.

And there was nothing Martin could do to stop it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two hours later the door to the basement opened. Martin thought by now he would be used to that door opening. It surprised and frightened him every time. The opening door meant food or death. Martin sat up from his futon and moved back until his shoulders rested against the wall. Was this it? Was this it?

Douglas came into view and in his hands he held the usual food tray. This was strange. Douglas had already brought breakfast a few hours ago. He never fed Martin again until dinner. "Afternoon," said Douglas, setting down the food tray at the foot of Martin's futon. "I brought tea and biscuits."

Tea and biscuits sounded so fucking good. When he was home, Martin sometimes indulged in a cup of specialized tea. A shop near the university campus called _The Red Door_ sold unique loose leaf teas from around the world. The last time Martin was there, the cute Indian waitress, June, had given him a free glazed crossiant. Martin remembered how she smiled at him, her dimples deepening on the sides of her cheeks. Martin smiled back, his ego and self-worth stroked. It was a really nice day.

Then thirty-six hours later, Douglas kidnapped him.

The tea Martin drank during meals was generic Earl Grey, served in a mug. Here, Douglas brought down white China. Small delicate pink flowers were painted around the edges of the glass. The buscuits looked absolutely amazing; they were chocolate dipped and drizzled with caramel. This would be the first time Martin's had something sweet since Douglas took away his dessert privileges.

Despite his wanting of tea, Martin made no move towards the tray. "What is this?"

"It's tea, Martin," Douglas said. He began to pour out hot water for two cups. "I thought that would be obvious."

"You've never brought it in such a fancy way before. Is this suppose to be some sort of apology?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm in the mood for conversation," Douglas said. He placed the tea bags in the cups. "You don't have to drink if you don't want to."

Biting his lip, Martin reached over and picked up one of the tea cups. He also grabbed a few biscuits, piling them on the side of his saucer. His hunger for chocolate outweighed his suspicion.

"Carolyn and Arthur miss you terribly," Douglas said. "Carolyn has yet to rehire a new Captain and keeps your hat in your locker."

Martin sucked in a lungful of air. Tears prickled at the side of his eyes and he fought to keep them in. He's cried enough in the past few weeks. "Jesus Christ, Douglas. Is this what you do? You get your jollies from the grieving families of your victims?"

"Of course not. I don't bother to learn my victim's names, let alone make an effort to track down their families. I simply thought you would like to know you are missed."

The tea was almost ready. Martin looked down at his cup, dipping the tea bag in and out of the water. "I miss them as well."

There was no point in saying, it was not as if Douglas was going to send Martin's sentiments to them. Martin wished there was a way, like a pigeon with a secret message on its leg. Just a small message, to tell them he was alive and that they shouldn't stop looking for him.

And while I'm at it, I would also like a pony, Martin thought bitterly.

The tea was ready. Before taking a sip, he shoved a biscuit in his mouth. After an entire week without something sweet, Martin's tongue pinched at the sudden rich chocolate. He fought through it, then took a long sip of tea.

Douglas took a more polite sip of his tea. "Carolyn has given me the entire week off."

"Hmmm..." Martin hummed. He shoved another biscuit into his mouth.

"I think the both of us could use a change of scenery. A friend of mine has a home up north located deep in the woods. I've already asked him if I could borrow the keys."

Martin was on his third biscuit. He tensed, realizing what Douglas was building towards. He wanted to take Martin out to the middle of fucking nowhere. Someplace where no one can hear him scream.

He swallowed audibly. "Then what?" He asked. "Is this your idea of trying to be _romantic?_ Woo me before-"

"I'm not under the delusion what I am doing is right, Martin," Douglas said dryly. "Everything I've done to you up to this point has been nothing but violence. Even this."

He lifted up his cup and gave a small mock salute before taking a sip.

"How is this violence?" Martin asked.

"Because I drugged the biscuits."

The fourth buscuit was already half way up to Martin's mouth. He froze, horror overtaking him. "You what-?"

He dropped the biscuit. It fell to the floor, clipping off the side of the futon and cracking in half upon striking the ground. Melted chocolate and caramel was smeared on Martin's fingers. "I... you..."

He let the tea and saucer fall from his hand, and immediately he shoved two fingers into his mouth, trying to make himself vomit.

Douglas tossed aside his own tea and was on Martin in an instant, tackling him down, wrenching Martin's fingers from his mouth. "Oh no, you let it take effect."

"NO! No, you can't-! Get off me! Get off me!"

They struggled. Using his weight and girth, Douglas flattened Martin down upon the futon, trapping his arms, refusing to let him up. "It's just something to help you sleep. Stop fighting, Martin. Stop-! Fighting-!"

"No-! I don't... I don't..."

The overspilt tea was right under Martin's belly, soaking in through his shirt and burning his skin. Douglas' own spilt tea was somewhere nearby Martin's knee, and the liquid was hotter. His leg kept twitching, trying to get away from the heat, but it only prompted Douglas to hold him down harder, shoving Martin's knee further into the mess, soaking his entire right thigh.

Slowly, Martin felt himself calm. A heaviness fogged his thoughts, taking his rationality and his fear. He relaxed, his limbs going limp. Feeling the change, Douglas rolled off of him. Martin made no move to get up.

"You'll be fine," Douglas said. He petted Martin's hair the same way he would pet a drowsy dog. "See you in a few hours."


	11. Chapter 11

Martin gave himself the fantasy he was home. That this was his bed he was laying on, in his room. In a few moments he was going to hear the students wander around downstairs, turning on the coffee machine, followed by the radio to listen to the morning university news. Shortly after that, Martin's own alarm clock was going to sound off, forcing him to get up to start the day.

He knew he wasn't home. He didn't believe he was, not for a second.

Martin opened his eyes. The room was he was in was only slightly bigger than his own attic, but the furniture gave the illusion it was more spacious. Besides the bed Martin laid on, there was a small dresser drawer with a collection of books sitting on top, a bedside table with a small lamp, two windows, and a circular mirror designed to look like the sun hanging on the wall. After spending so much time in the basement, this room was practically a four-star hotel. He was alone and for the first time in forever, he was unchained.

He hadn't been unconscious for that long. The thin bruises around his wrists were still disgustingly purple. Martin took a breath and sat up.

Immense white hot pain shot up his leg and he cried out. He fell back down, clutching at his leg from beneath the blanket. Tears streamed down his eyes as he laid there, waiting for the pain to ebb away. It was familiar pain, and it wasn't located at his knee, it wasn't his thigh-

With a sniffle, Martin threw back the blankets.

His right ankle was a goddamn mess of bruises, bruises so dark it made his skin look black. His ankle had already swelled to twice its size, and no matter how gingerly Martin tried to move it, excruciating pain engulphed his entire leg. He couldn't tell if his ankle was broken or simply twisted. God, did Douglas do this to him on purpose?

Grimacing, Martin realized he also needed to use the toilet. Badly.

The room only had one door, so Martin safetly assumed the toilet was down the hall somewhere. He swung his legs over to the side of the bed and gently set his feet on the ground. He carefully pressed down to see if he could put weight on his ankle.

"Gah!" Martin hissed, jerking his leg up. He shook his head. Nope, there was no way he walking on this.

That's why Douglas disabled him. To prevent him from running.

He still needed to use the toilet. Taking a breath, Martin called out, "Douglas?"

He waited. There was no reply. "Douglas! Are you here?"

Still no answer. A quick inspection around the bed revealed Douglas had not left him a chamber pot. Gathering breath, Martin braced himself as he put his weight on his good foot and pushed himself up.

It took an antagonizing five minutes to get the loo. And then another three to find a way to piss without spraying it all over himself. By the time he tucked himself away and flushed the toilet, Martin was exhausted. He shut the toilet lid and sat on top of it, grasping his leg in agony.

"We're miles away from the closest town."

Martin startled. Douglas was standing by the open door, leaning against the frame, looking down at him. He continued, "I'm sure if you're determined, you can drag yourself across the woods to get help, twisted ankle or not. But do take into consideration I had played with the idea of _chopping_ your foot off instead of simply twisting it. You know I am not one for idle threats, Martin. If you ever do escape, better pray I never catch you because I _will_ cut your foot off. Understand?"

Martin nodded.

"I need to hear you say it."

"I understand," Martin said, swallowing.

"Good," Douglas said, pulling back. He grasped something from out of view and brought it into the loo. It was crutches. "Here, you can use these to get around. Once you wash your hands, come downstairs for lunch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had considered having Douglas chop Martin's foot off, but I really didn't want to disable Martin like that. =P


	12. Chapter 12

The kitchen was beautifully decorated. It was like something out of a cooking show with its bright walls, fancy-looking countertop, and its expensive equipment that looked like they were never going to be used. The table Martin sat at was round and had a delicate peach coloured clothe drapped over it. In the middle sat fake flowers in a blue vase. Douglas was by the stove, mixing something in a pan.

It was so surreal. Everything here was so nice, so warm and inviting. Except Martin's ankle throbbed achingly with every heartbeat, and as he sat there, with his hands clasped on the table, he stared at the multiple growing scabs on his wrists. The sight of the beautiful kitchen and the bright sun confused him. It was easier to be afraid back in the basement.

Douglas placed something in front of Martin, startling him out of his thoughts. "I'm trying something new. Tell me if you like it."

It looked like a regular spagehetti dish, to which Martin internally groaned. _If I ever get out of here, I am never eating pasta again. I don't care if it's cheap._ "Is it drugged?"

Douglas sat down with his own plate. "No. I only drugged the biscuits."

"I don't believe you."

"You spent the entire trip here sleeping in the backseats with a blanket over you. If you were awake, you would've been in the boot, bound and gagged to keep you from screaming. So I chose the more humane way of transporting you."

Martin stared unhappily at the spaghetti plate. He picked up his fork.

The spaghetti surprisingly had large chunks of eggplant and bits of walnuts mixed in. It was immensely delicious and Martin found himself wolfing it down. He didn't know how long he was unconscious and had been ignoring his appetite this whole time.

"Once you're done eating," Douglas said. "You can take a shower upstairs."

Okay, sure. A shower sounds great, wash off the blood and sweat and-

Martin slowed in his eating. "And what happens after?"

"You know what happens after."

Yes, yes he did. Martin swallowed his last mouthful and slowly placed his fork on the plate, his appetite gone now. "Crocodile-"

" _No_ ," Douglas said sharply. "We're not playing games. No more."

Oh god, oh fuck. "D-Douglas, you said it yourself, we're friends. We-we-we worked together side by side for nearly six years now! Please don't do this me."

Martin had nothing else. He has already begged and cried and fought. He had nothing else left except to appeal to Douglas' better nature.

Douglas placed down his own fork. He looked regretful. His shoulders sagged like he had a weight on his back, bearing down upon him. For a shiny moment, Martin thought he got through. "I'm sorry, Martin," he said. "If I knew this was going to happen, I wouldn't have brought you over that night. But I can't change the past and I'm too far in to stop."

"God, Douglas, don't-"

"I'll do my best to limit any damage I may cause. But this is happening whether you want it to or not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has the non-con parts. Early warning.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of rape.

The home must've been owned by someone with a disability because the shower was installed with handicap handles and a seat. Martin wished he had these back when he first twisted his ankle. Taking a shower while sitting down on the floor was not the greatest experience.

Martin scrubbed slowly. He washed his hair twice, lathered his body carefully, and cleaned every crevice and fold of skin he had. He did it mostly to waste time, to dely the inevitable. If he were not about to face a horrible fate, he would've done it anyways. Getting clean became such a religious experience for him, finding solace and peace in soap and hot water.

There were a few moments in which Martin stopped scrubbing, curled in on himself and shook. His panic never lasted very long, only about a minute or two at a time, and then he was back to washing his body.

_He could try to make a run for it. Get lost in the trees. But he'll never make it on this ankle. He could barely move around in this house without the crutches. It's only pain. Martin's known pain, and what's pain compared to staying here? Except if he's caught, his foot was gone. Martin can't fly without a foot. (Was flying worth the risk? YES IT FUCKING WAS)_

Martin turned off the water- it was getting cold anyhow- and achingly pulled himself out. Thank goodness for these handicap handles. If Martin had to hop out of the tub without them, he would've surely broke his neck. He toweled himself off and with one last look at himself in the mirror (grimacing when he saw nothing; it was too fogged up to see) Martin grasped the crutches and opened the door to the bedroom.

Douglas was already there. He was by the dresser, pulling items out of the drawers. Condoms. Lube. And-

"Will these be necessary?" Douglas asked, holding up a pair of handcuffs.

Martin quickly tore his eyes away. He couldn't even look at them. "No... I... my leg hurts too much. I... I won't struggle."

"Alright," he said, putting the cuffs back in the drawer. "But if I sense you are going to fight back-"

"Enough with the threats! You're already raping me, I don't need to listen to your bullshit!"

That surprised Douglas. He stepped away from the dresser, his eyebrows raised, stunned.

He grinned suddenly, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkled. "That's what I've always liked about you, Martin. No matter the situation, you're always willing to fight."

"Don't-!" Martin snapped. "Don't compliment me on my complacency to be violated."

"You're not complacent. You've awknowledge this is one fight you cannot win and decided to take the best road for yourself. If you were complacent, I would've raped you days ago."

He closed the drawer for dramatic effect and snatched up the condoms and lube. "Take off your towel and get on the bed. Get comfortable."

God. The towel around his waist was loose already. Martin grasped one of the wet edges, pulled and threw the towel to the side. His skin was still lightly damp from the shower and when he sat down on the bed, he could feel the comforter sticking to the bottom of his thighs. He didn't know what to do with the crutches. He considered just leaving them flat on the floor and noticed a wheelchair folded up in the corner of the room. He frowned. "Who owns this home?"

"Terry from the firecrew."

"This is _Terry's_ home?"

"Technically it's his mother's. She's seventy-two and needs help getting around. Hence the crutches, the handle bars-"

"Oh, gross, am I using some old woman's tools? That's sick, Douglas."

Douglas waved off his concerns.

Martin left the crutches on the ground. Behind him, he heard Douglas undress.

He's shared enough hotel rooms with Douglas to know his sounds, the way he preferred to do things. Douglas always undid his cuffs first, unbutton the front of his shirt but not take it off yet. He'd then take off his shoes, his socks, then his shirt, his undershirt, before moving on to his belt and trouser's zip.

Martin waited, hearing fabric and clothe move behind him. He flinched when he heard the jingling of the belt being undone, followed by the zipper. He was trying to do his best to stay calm, but with every breath he took, the more he felt like he was going to mentally break down.

The weight of the bed shifted behind him. Shuffling noises and suddenly, two hands were on his shoulders. They idly carressed him, touching him slowly. This was it, Martin's brain supplied in a panic. This was it, this was it, this was it.

"Martin," Douglas said. "Remember, this is not your fault."

He kissed the top of Martin's shoulder. His hair tickled his skin.

"Say it."

"This... this is not my fault."

"Good." He kissed him again. "Do you remember the others?"

"I-I am not to blame."

Another kiss.

"Nothing I could've said or done-" Douglas' hand grasped Martin's chin, had him to lean back his head so Douglas could mouth at his neck. "Would- would- oh god- would have prevented this!"

Douglas kept _licking_ him. _Tasting_ him, Martin thought. He licked at Martin's throat, his jawline, the whorl of his ear. With his free hand, he came up from behind Martin's arm, to trail his fingers across his chest, brushing his fingers across his nipple. Martin squirmed, his body twisting in confusion of wanting to run away and accepting what was happening to him. After experiencing so much violence, his body begged for relief, for something other than pain. Douglas brushed his nipple again and he arched into his touch.

 _Don't even think about it. Block it out, it'll be over soon. Lay back and think of England. Think of anything. Remember that day when you finally got your license? You were so happy you cried in the van. It was honestly one of best days of your life. The absolute best day had to be when you finally sat behind the controls of Gerti, looking over her well worn buttons and switches, and knowing you were going to fly her. As a captain. Not as a student or a first officer, a captain. It was everything you've ever wanted and more_.

"What do you mean by that?"

Douglas' voice jerked him out of his memories. Martin opened his eyes and found himself laying down on the bed, with Douglas hovering over him. He didn't remember ever laying down, let alone closing his eyes. "What?"

"You keep repeating over and over, _not like this_. What do you mean by that?"

O-oh, no. No. Martin pointedly kept his mouth shut, refusing to answer. It was bad enough he was going to be violated like this, he didn't need his shame and humiliation brought out into the open and mocked. He couldn't stop the heat from rising up into his cheeks.

Douglas got it anyways. Of course he did. "Are you...?" He pulled back a bit, surprised. "Are you a _virgin_ , Martin?"

Martin said nothing. His silence was enough confirmation.

"Fuck," Douglas hissed, shaking his head. "Of course you are."

"Don't you dare shame me for this! It's none of your business!"

"There's no shame. I don't care if you pegged a million blokes or none at all, it makes no difference to me. I just thought... I'd been hoping you had better experiences than this."

Martin sank into the bed miserably.

"However," Douglas continued. "Do you have any fantasies?"

"What?"

"Fantasies. Do you have any kinks? Fetishes?"

"Why would I ever share such a thing with you-"

"Because I will never repeat them. Take a good look at the opportunity you have here, Martin. Nothing you say to me here will ever leave this room. I can keep your confidence, I can keep your secrets, _I can keep your sins_. Now is the perfect time to unload all of your fantasies that would otherwise be considered sick in polite society."

Martin really didn't have fantasies. He didn't have time. Besides, his tastes in erotica ran fairly vanilla. He enjoyed watching women masturbate, whether it was with their own hands or with a sex toy. For men, he liked it when they got blow jobs. Most of the video clips Martin's jerked off to were usually women who maturbated whilst giving blow jobs. That was about as extreme as Martin ever got.

The silence reigned on for so long, Douglas started kissing his collar bone again, thinking he wasn't going to answer.

"I don't regret killing Mr. Lesman."

"What?" Douglas said, lifting his head up, brushing his hair away from his eyes. "You... what, you mean that American who had a heart attack on Gerti?"

"I regret a lot of things during that flight," Martin said, swallowing. "The way I acted in front of the passengers, the way I allowed Carolyn to talk to me, how unprofessional I was during the whole thing. But I don't regret his death, not once. I keep thinking... I keep thinking I should be upset. He might've been married, had kids, but I'm not. I'm not upset. I'm _glad_ he's dead. He was a horrible, awful man."

"That's... not exactly what I meant by sins. However, true to my word, your secret is safe with me. Anything else?"

"Arthur asked me out on a date once."

" _Really_?"

"This happened during my second year working at MJN. He pulled me aside and confessed he's always been attracted to me and wanted to know if I wanted go out and have dinner. I said no. He was disappointed, but he let it go. He said he'll always prefer my friendship. I think he's still attracted to me. I catch him sometimes, looking at me."

"I didn't know Arthur was bi. I guess that is something he would rather keep to himself. Alright, anything else? Last confession of the night."

Martin thought about it. "I absolutely hate the perfume Carolyn wears."

"That's no secret, everybody hates it!"

An unexpected bark of laughter burst of out Martin's mouth. He immediately tried to stifle it, but the proud shit-eating grin on Douglas' face only spurred him on, and he dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Martin has never known the true definition of hysterical laughter till now. He kept going, even long after the moment long stopped being funny, and any pleasant feeling he had quickly dissolved back into fear. Douglas ignored him and went back to kissing his chest. The giggles slowly died away, the last one turning into a hiccuping sob before it stopped altogether.

"Don't," he said suddenly.

Douglas continued.

"Douglas, please. Don't do this to me."

The loud smacking noises of his kisses echoed in the small space of the room. Martin laid there, staring up at the ceiling as he felt Douglas' hair brush across his chest.

Without even thinking, Martin placed his hands upon Douglas' shoulders, and _shoved_ as hard as he could.

Douglas gave out a confused cry as he was first shoved first back, then back _wards_ , right over the edge of the bed. He landed with an undignified loud fwump, his legs going right over his head.

At first Martin couldn't believe what he'd just done, and he laid there, frozen on the bed. In the next second he blinked, and spurred himself into action. He rolled over and threw himself off the bed, crashing to the floor, right on top of the crutches. He didn't bother with them, he didn't have time, and began to crawl across the floor as fast as he was able. He felt like he was in basic training, the way he scrambled on his arms and knees. His ankle screamed with every movement and he ignored it, needing to get away now, get away fast.

He didn't know what Douglas was doing behind him, didn't care, his only thoughts was to get away. He crawled across a floor rug, a well-worn brown and red thing, and managed to get to the open door. He reached out to grasp the frame, to pull himself out into the hallway and-

Douglas grabbed Martin's arm and violently hauled it down to behind his back. A moment later, he felt the cold bite of metal click around his wrist.

"NO!" Martin yelled, twisting and fighting to avoid having his other arm be handcuffed as well. "You can't-! Stop-!"

He tried to drag himself away using only one arm, his fingernails digging into the slanted grooves of the wooden floor. It was a fruitless endeavour as Douglas grabbed his other arm and hauled it down as well, securing his wrist into the handcuff.

Once done, Martin was forced onto his back, trapping his arms and hands against the floor, squashing them. With his good leg, he kicked out whilst trying to move back. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no-!"

This was a pointless fight from the very beginning. Martin was too injured, too tired to fight back properly. He kept kicking, yelling in pain every time he moved his ruined ankle awkwardly. Douglas said nothing though his mouth was curled into a snarl. He grabbed Martin's knees and shoved them apart. Martin yelled, cursed, begging Douglas while damning him with the same breath. "No, you bastard! You can't! Fucking, stop-!"

"Shut up," was all Douglas said and bent down, taking Martin's cock into his mouth.

For a horrific second, Martin thought Douglas was going to bite it off. He could visualize so well. His stomach lurched with nausea as images of blood and gore filled his mind. He tried to move backwards on his elbows, and was unable to gain traction due to the loose rug underneath him.

Douglas' head bobbed up and down, bringing Martin's half-hard cock into a full erection. The kissing had an effect on Martin. His chest, his nipples still tingled, wanting to be touched again. The sight of Douglas sucking him off was unbelievable. After years of only watching clips, Martin had no idea his first time would be like this. He gritted his teeth as Douglas' tongue lavished over the sensitive head of his cock, refusing to make noise, pleasurable or not.

Douglas suddenly raised his gaze and his eyes locked with Martin's. Outside, the sun finally disappeared behind the clouds and room became darker, more sinister, pushing the two men into shadows. Douglas' expression was hard to read, most of his face hidden by the long bangs of his greying hair. He gave Martin's throbbing cock one last slurp, and pulled up. "None of that," he muttered, crawling up Martin's body. "You've been so vocal, don't stop now."

He latched his mouth onto one of Martin's nipples, sucking wetly as his hand grasped Martin's prick and began pumping him.

Martin let his head fall back, unable to watch any longer. He was going to come like this. With his hands tied behind his back, on the cold floor of a stranger's house, with Douglas' hand on him.

He gave out a little whine as Douglas moved on to his other nipple, playing with it with his tongue before taking it into his mouth. It was shameful how good this felt, how much Martin wanted it. His breath quickened, his body tensing. Sweet pleasure engulphed his entire being, whiting out the pain from his ankle, dulling the sensations of his hands being crushed by his own weight.

"Come on, then," Douglas said, drawing up from Martin's chest, facing him. He aligned their cocks together, grasping them both in his hand. He moved and Martin's blood _sang_ at the overwhelming sensations. "Come on, let me see you."

"Go fuck yourse-"

He didn't finish his curse. Douglas suddenly kissed him, forcing his tongue in, muffling his words. Martin tried to move his head away, but Douglas simply pressed down harder, never once breaking his momentum with his hips. "Come on," he hissed, biting at Martin's lips. His hand jerked them both off fiercely, almost at the edge of being painful. " _Come on!_ "

"It hurts!" Martin gasped. It didn't really, but anything to get him to stop. He was going to come. Any moment now, he was going to come. "Please-"

His orgasm ripped through him, taking away his fear and his shame. Douglas groaned against his mouth, splattering his own come against Martin's belly. It wasn't a sensation Martin liked. He always caught his own semen in a tissue or in his hand. To feel himself and Douglas spray across his belly made him want to take a shower again.

They laid there, on the floor, letting their breathing come back to normal. As the moment dragged on, and Douglas showing no signs of getting up to relieve the weight off Martin's hands, Martin asked quietly, "Are you going to kill me now?"

This was the whole point, right? For Douglas to fulfill his sick fantasy?

Finally, Douglas lifted his head up to look at Martin. His cheeks were still red, his lips bruise-kissed. He frowned.

"I... don't know," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I can keep your sins" line came from an old non/dub-erotica story I read years ago. It was never finished and the author deleted it since.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapters focuses primarily on Douglas' past murders. Also, dramatized allergic reaction.

The very first time Douglas killed someone, he was nine years old.

It was his nanny, a twenty-four year old woman named Bella. She was a university student studying... something. Douglas didn't remember, it's been too long. He just knew he didn't do it because she mistreated him or scolded him unfairly for his misdeeds. He only did it because he wanted to see if he could get away with it.

Bella had a severe peanut allergy. In her purse she carried with her at all times an epi pen. It was a simple matter of grabbing the pen, and then scooping peanut dust into Bella's cup of coffee while she wasn't looking.

Douglas remembered that day in the same way someone remembered their first kiss. He watched eagerly as Bella came back from the loo, sat back down in her seat and took a small sip of her coffee. Douglas was so excited, he could barely focus on eating his breakfast cereal, his eyes going back up to her face to see the reaction. He thought it would be an instaneous thing.

Bella eventually noticed his squrming. "What are you so excited about?" She asked with a grin.

"Nothing," Douglas said.

She took another sip. "You silly little monkey."

It would take another three sips before Bella started shifting uneasily in her seat. She coughed, her hands reaching up to her throat, scratching at it. At this point Douglas stopped eating, watching in fascination. Bella tried to keep her composure, her calm, but as the redness around her throat got worse, that's when she realized something was truly wrong.

She scrambled for her purse, dug through it franctically. She was wheezing horribly, every breath sounding more and more like a clogged vaccum cleaner. In a panic she overturned her purse, dumping the contents haphazardly on the table. Her lipstick immediately rolled away, falling over the edge to the floor. Bella continued searching through her things desperately, tossing aside her compact mirror, her sanitary pads, and other useless things. The redness had reached up to her ears. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyes were watering badly, and all the while Douglas simply watched.

Giving up on trying to find her epi pen, Bella stumbled towards the phone hanging on the wall. She started dialing in the number for an ambulance; she had to redial twice due to pressing the wrong buttons in her haste.

That's when Douglas held up her missing epi pen.

Judging from the relieved, surprised look on her face, she didn't suspect Douglas had hidden her pen. She probabaly thought he found it. With a grateful sob, she dropped the reciever and she reached out for the pen. Douglas suddenly jumped off his seat and hurried to the other side of the room.

"Douglas," Bella wheezed, stumbling after him. "Please... I need..."

He held it out for her, then purposely dropped it on the floor. It rolled and curled away from him, catching itself on the leg of a lamp.

Bella crashed to the ground, crawling desperately for it. Douglas continued watching in silence as Bella pulled her pen towards her. Her swollen face was a stark scarlet colour now, verging on purple. She managed to pop the top off, but that was when her strength finally left her. She gave off one last mournful groan, laid her head down, pressing her fat, swollen, red cheek against the linoleum, and died.

Douglas stepped over her to finish his cereal.

Once he was done, he rinsed out Bella's mug and flushed down the remains of the peanut dust. Then he called for an ambulance.

He had to put soap into his eyes to force himself to cry. The police and the EMTs mistook his sobbing for emotional distress and was only questioned briefly about what had happened. In the end Bella's death was ruled as an accident.

Douglas would eventually come to regret killing Bella, but not for the obvious reason. A month later his parents hired a new nanny, Jane, and she was a horrid old woman who stunk of cat piss. Unlike Bella, who gave Douglas ice cream for dessert and took him to the park every day, Jane mostly sent him to his room to do his homework and never gave him sweets of any kind.

Bella was the first and only victim of Douglas' he knew the name of. For the next forty years, every single one of his victims had been complete strangers.

When he was fifteen, he went to a house party and smothered a drunken boy with a pillow.

When he was twenty-two, he passed a young woman who was romantically star gazing on a bridge and promptly threw her off it.

When he was twenty-seven, he came upon a man who wandered away from his group to take a piss in the woods, and strangled him. (Douglas was nearly caught during that night and was only saved by the grace of the night and the stupidity of the man's friends.)

He never learned their names, never followed their stories on the news. He also never gave to much thought why. He always believed it was because he didn't care and it was not worth his time.

The irony was not lost on him on having Martin, the only other victim he personally knew, to be the one victim he could not kill.

Like with Bella, was there a bigger consequence to deal with over the horizon? Sooner or later someone was going to force his hand. When that moment came, Douglas better be damn ready for it. He may not be able to kill Martin, but he was willing to bring Martin down with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally the death of the man in the woods was having his throat cut. But the way I worded it, it sounded like Douglas had cut off his wee. So I changed it. =P


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of rape, body horror.

Martin was screaming behind the gag. The gag itself was a strip of clothe with one large knot tied in the middle. It was shoved into Martin's mouth, the ends tied behind his head. This allowed him to bite down, to breathe, but not to talk. Every time he begged or cursed, his words were unpronouncable.

It was honestly one of the hottest things Douglas has ever seen.

When the first time had failed to inspire Douglas to kill Martin, he tried again. And again. And again. This was the fifth time now. Douglas was fucking Martin slowly, purposely dragging his cock heavily against Martin's prostate. By the end of this week, Martin was going to know every _spot_ on his body that made him squeal.

Martin groaned. There wasn't enough stimulation to make him come, and he leaked heavily across his belly, his prick flushed dark red.

Douglas was getting close and he couldn't resist asking, "Do you want to come?"

It was silly to ask that, Douglas was going to make him come whether he wanted to or not. Martin didn't answer- _couldn't_ answer. He was too far gone, driven out of his mind, unable to know who he was or where he was. "Alright then..." Douglas muttered, reaching down between them to grasp Martin's cock.

It only took a few strokes for Martin to squeal, his body seizing tightly. Douglas gave out his own groan, feeling Martin clamp down around him. It didn't take long for his own orgasm to come, and he buried himself deep, grasping Martin's arse tightly.

It felt incredible. Douglas wanted nothing more than to repeat this delicious sweet feeling over and over again.

Martin was heaving, gasping through his gag. Tears leaked out of his eyes, staining his sweaty, red cheeks. Taking mercy on him, Douglas reached around and untied the gag, pulling it away from Martin's mouth. The gag was damp and gross. Douglas frowned at the sight of it and tossed it off to the side quickly.

"No more..." Martin begged. He was still trying to catch his breath. "I can't... please..."

"We're done for the night," said Douglas. With a grunt, he pulled out of Martin.

Martin shivered at the sensation.

Douglas then reached up to release the handcuffs. Martin had rubbed his wrists raw again. He was never going to rid of these scars.

Once Douglas crawled off of him, Martin curled in on himself, cradling his arms to his chest.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," Douglas said, standing up. "After that, I'll make lunch."

"Is this going to be the rest of my life?"

"Hmmm?"

"This," Martin sniffled. "You, raping me. Torturing me. When is it going to end?"

"Are you asking me to kill you, Martin?"

Martin said nothing.

Douglas sighed. "I'm going to be honest with you... I don't know if I am ever going to kill you."

Surprised, Martin twisted to look at him, frowning as he did so.

"You've been mine for two months now, and I think it's time to admit I'm not going to kill you. I must confess, I really enjoy having sex with you-"

"Raping me."

"Yes, that. I like our conversations. It's nice not having to lie. There's no barriers between us."

"Then what's going to happen? Am I going be stuck in that basement forever? Am I ever going to set foot outside again, feel the wind on my skin, enjoy the sunshine... fly an aeroplane?"

He finished that last portion of the sentence with a quiet sob. He stared up at the ceiling, tears cascading down his face, staining the pillow beneath him.

"Oh, Martin," Douglas cooed. He climbed back on the bed. Martin tried to hide himself by covering his face with his arms and turning away. Douglas pulled him back, gently moving his arms down and wiping away his tears.

"Don't-" Martin hiccuped. "Don't be nice to me..."

Douglas swooped down and kissed him. Unlike the past kisses where it was a smashing of teeth and lips, this kiss was gentle, demanding nothing but soft, quiet pleasure. Martin did not resist, did not pull away. He let himself be kissed, didn't fight as Douglas rubbed his cheeks, touched his neck.

Douglas didn't know what he said or exactly what he'd done, but Martin began to kiss _back_.

It was so subtle, Douglas was sure he imagined it. No, there it was, the soft pressure pushing back against his own lips.

"Please," Martin begged in between kisses. "I want to fly. Don't take that away from me..."

So what was this? Some kind of offering?

Wondering how far Martin was willing to go, he trailed a hand down Martin's chest, across his stomach, down to his hips and very gently, touched him.

Martin halted his hand, trying to push it away. "N-no... I'm too senstive..."

Douglas slapped his arm away and touched him again. He trailed his fingers over the head of Martin's cock, tickling him more than stimulating him. Even those small touches had Martin gasping. He dug the heel of his hands into his eyes as he arched off the bed, his body twisting to escape.

"Are you willing to give me this," Douglas asked quietly. "Just to fly again?"

Martin made a choking sound.

Douglas trailed a finger down, gently brushed Martin's balls, then back up again. "Answer me."

"I didn't take my CPL seven times just to lose it now!" Martin said through gritted teeth. "So yes! If I have to-"

"I"ve killed many people, Martin. Are you willing to let a serial killer go so you can fly?"

"I just want to go home. Please. I want to be a pilot again."

"What guarantee do I have? You've fought me every inch of the way. Even when you said you'd submit, you screamed and pushed back. How do I know once we leave this room, you won't go straight to the police?"

When pushed to the edge, Martin usually had one of two reactions: either he'd panicked and flail, or he rose to the occasion with fierce creativity and wit. Exactly what could Martin offer Douglas he'd not already taken?

Martin sat up, and Douglas pulled his arm away. Martin still looked miserable, tired and worn. His lips thinned out. "Lay back."

Douglas rose an eyebrow at this. Curious, he did as he was told, leaning back down upon the pillows, drapping an arm behind his head.

With a quiet sigh, Martin grasped Douglas' limp cock. He opened his mouth and leaned down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Douglas Richardson was a liar.

Unfortunately Inspector McCormick had no way of proving that, and no, 'because my instincts told me so' was not enough cause to get a court order.

Everyone lied. It was simple human instinct. Some people lied to get out of work. Others lied to spare the feelings of a friend. There was no shame in it.

When McCormick interviewed Richardson about the disappearance of Martin Crieff, the entire time McCormick sat there, listening to Richardson answer, he felt like an audience member in a theatre. He watched as Richardson clearly put on a show for him, speaking rehearsed lines, his movements deliberate and carefully thought out. Nothing suggested Richardson bore ill will towards Crieff; so why the performance?

That's how McCormick found himself parking his car in front of Richardson's home.

This was not the first time he's been to Richardson's home, but this was the first time he looked at with great suspicion, scrutinizing every detail.

Though Fitton was technically not the country, large portions of the area was surrounded by rolling hills, abandoned farms, and sudden acres of trees. Richardson's home was a detached house, built so far away from the rest of the neighbourhoood, it was a miracle it hadn't been robbed yet. Stretched out behind the home was an open field, overgrown with grass. Beyond that, a thick thatch of trees. McCormick was surprised the neighbourhood committee allowed such overgrowth. Surely they had enough funds to hire a mower once a month.

Richardson wasn't home, McCormick made sure of that.

Of course none of that mattered. McCormick didn't have a search warrent. All he could do was observe.

Even looking at the house with suspicious eyes, he saw nothing wrong with it. It was a nice house. It was clean, simple, and not that old, if McCormick was judging its age right. This had been once home to Richardson's daughter until she moved in with her mother after the divorce. Probably for the best. Fitton wasn't exactly child-friendly with its lack of proper schools and local activities.

"What secrets do you hold?" McCormick said to himself as he got out of his car. He didn't want to get too close in case Richardson had cameras set up. He kept his distance, observing the structure and and size.

There were heavy curtains on the windows.

Not a big deal, it wasn't illegal or uncommon. But the house was already alone and so far away. The extra need for privacy when there were no neighbours around didn't make sense.

McCormick circled the house, scrutinizing every wall, as if expecting to find the clues painted on the side.

Once he was hip-deep into the overgrown field, he stopped and sighed heavily. There was nothing here. Sure, one or two things were off-putting, but it wasn't enough for a warrent. He needed a body, he needed probable cause, if only he could-

He stepped back, considering his options, when suddenly his foot pressed upon something. There was a noise like a can rolling down an empty street, and the next thing he knew, he was down, clutching at his leg, screaming in pain. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" The jaws of the bear trap bit deeply into the flesh of his calf, breaking bone and spilling blood.

McCormick scrambled for his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He couldn't unlock his screen, his fingers were too slick with blood.

"Fuck!" He spat out, hastily wiping his bloody hand across his chest. "Fuck!"

After two more tries, he managed to unlock his phone and dialed for emergency services.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: dub-con kissing

Martin has never been a fan of the rain. Rain meant flying out was going to be tough. Rain meant less van jobs. To him, the rain was a hinderence on his work, on his everyday life. If ever earned enough money, he was going to move somewhere sunny and warm.

Like the shower, the rain brought something Martin didn't know he missed. The smell of the humidity, the sight of the darken sky, the quiet calm of the storm. He sat on the steps of the house, uncaring if he got wet. It wasn't raining that hard anyways. He let himself revel in the feel of the cool water silently drift down his face.

"Enjoying yourself?" Douglas asked, taking a seat next to him.

Both of them were nude. Martin didn't want to bother slipping on a pair of jeans over his ruined ankle. Besides, there was no point in hiding his nakedness. Douglas had already seen, touched, bit and licked every inch of his body.

Douglas just didn't care. Martin was sure if there were no public indecency laws, Douglas would walk around like that all day.

"I miss being outside," Martin said. "It feels really good to get fresh air."

"It's going to get hotter by next week. We might get heavier rain than this."

"I'd love to see that."

"You will, Martin. You will. We need to be patient. Do this quietly."

"I know, I know."

The rain was slowing. The humidity felt stronger, making Martin's skin feel sticky and gross. He wasn't ready to go back inside yet.

"I'm so glad I didn't kill you," Douglas said.

It was a sickening sentence, but Martin didn't feel the usual wave of horror and dread. He was quiet inside. He was so calm he placed a hand over his heart, ensuring he wasn't tricking himself. But no, his heartbeat was steady. Was this a good thing? Or had Martin hit a wall? Maybe he was truly broken inside. "Thank you," Martin said. "For letting me go home."

"You deserve it. I really didn't want to kill you, but letting you go was not an option. So thank you for coming to a compromise."

The rain stopped. Martin pushed back his lightly damp hair. "Why do you kill?" He asked. "Obviously it's not for fame or fortune or... I don't know. Do you get off on it?"

"You are my first and only rape victim."

"Confession time, Douglas. I gave you my secrets, now it's your turn. Why do you kill?"

Douglas sighed and leaned back on his elbows. "I can't give you a definite answer. I've never really pinpointed the reason, or the exact cause. It's... it's a feeling. You know how when you walk down the street, and you see a dry leaf? You feel the urge to go step on that leaf and hear it crunch underneath your foot. It's... satisfaction, I suppose. People enjoy perfect ice cream swirls, others enjoy even numbers-"

"You enjoy murder."

"There are plently of bastards out there who kick down sandcastles just to see children cry. There's even a word for it: schadenfreude. I am not the only one out there who is ruthless and cruel."

"Will you stop?"

"No."

Martin withered in on himself. He was under no delusion he could actually stop Douglas, but... if he could... slow him down? "If I am coming back, there's going to be a lot attention. On me, on you, and for both of our interests, we need to lay low."

Douglas huffed. "You're right," he said. "You're right... Alright, I'll stop killing."

There was a 'for now' tacked on at the end. Martin decided to let that go. A different question was plaguing him, and he was scared to ask it. "Are you..." Martin swallowed. He pushed on. "Are you in love with me?"

"I've... considered I might be."

"You don't know?"

"I've done terrible things to you, Martin. Does that seem like love to you?"

At least he was honest. "I'm just trying to rationalize why you didn't kill me."

"Say it is love. Then what? Will you be satisfied with that answer, Martin? Will that help you sleep at night, knowing the only reason why you're still alive is because I love you?"

"Yes!"

Douglas pushed himself off the steps and stepped onto the grass. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then twisted back around to face Martin. "No," he hissed. "I am not in love with you. I refuse to believe I would treat someone I loved like that. I've beaten you, held you in complete darkness for hours, drugged you, _raped_ you, and you think that means love? I have never done any of that to my wives!"

"Did you love them?"

Martin had no idea what he was going with this line of questioning. He just needed to know. He didn't want to die with not knowing, not understanding. This was the only advantage he had, his only defense.

"I liked them," Douglas said. His arms were trembling. "They made me laugh, they were great conversationalists, they..."

"You said it yourself, Douglas. I am the only one in the whole world who knows your secret. You know mine. Have you ever been so truthful with your wives, with any of your friends? What am I to you, why am I here?"

Douglas rushed forward, grabbing Martin and hauling him up into his arms. How ridiculous they must look, Martin thought. Two grown naked men out in the middle of the woods, holding on to each other for dear life. Martin's good foot barely held his weight, his entire being leaning into Douglas' embrace.

It began to rain again.

This time it wasn't a gentle summer drizzle. Fat, heavy droplets soaked their skin within seconds. Douglas' eyes were dark as they stared at Martin like he's never seen anything like him before.

Douglas' face suddenly crumpled. " _God_...!"

He crashed his mouth upon Martin's, kissing him deeply, his hold on him tightening. There was a crack of thunder, startling Martin, but Douglas merely held on tighter, letting the roar of the rain drown out the world around them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major character death

In all, McCormick had one hundred and eighty-three stitches, a cracked tibia, two shots for tetanus, required three months in a cast, and had scheduled physcial therapy after the cast was taken off.

He was too old physical fucking therapy. McCormick was already in his late fifties, slowly inching his way to his sixties. He was going to be stuck with a stupid, painful limp forever. He didn't care. He didn't care that his stitches were already itching like crazy within the cast, or how his wife will react to his now permanent disability. He had work to do.

By the time McCormick got back to Richardson's neighborhood, it was five in the morning. His men had already blocked off the entire street. Sleepy neighbours stood on their porches, swaddled in their robes, asking passing officers what was going on and were ignored. Some of them even had the nerve of bringing out binoculars and tried to see down the street.

McCormick had left his sargeant, a young eager gal named Denise Doland, in charge while he was in the hospital. It took her no time at all to grab a warrant to search Richardson's property and even less time to gather the extra hands and forensics. McCormick drove up to the chaotic scene, both pleased and dumbfounded at Doland's initiative. In a small town like Fitton, getting the necessary supplies out here took an ungodly amount of time and she got them all within a few hours.

"Doland!" McCormick called out as soon as he opened his car door. "Report!"

Doland tried to help him up on his feet as he clumsily arranged his crutches. He pushed her off with a grunt. "What have you found?"

"What haven't we found?" Doland huffed. "Sir, it's mindboggling on how... _much_ there is. We've already pulled _four_ more beartraps from the field. We brought in the dogs, and within seconds they found _three_ bodies. By the time we got the warrant to search Richardson's home, the dogs uncovered _five_ more bodies. That was two hours ago."

McCormick couldn't help but feel a sick satisfaction on how right he was. He just didn't think it was going to be this bad. "Have we found anybody alive?"

"No."

"What about Martin Crieff? Is there any signs of him?"

"We've found a couple of red hairs in the dungeon-"

"The _dungeon_?"

Trying to pass under police tape while limping on crutches was as awkward as it looked. McCormick hated how he had to allow other people to help him move, to let Doland hold up the tape as he hobbled into the house. "Like a literal fucking dungeon?"

"It's like something out of a horror movie, sir. There's chains on the wall, a bare mattress, even a chamber pot in the corner."

McCormick got to the basement stairs. He stared down at them.

"I can't fucking climb these stairs," he said. He turned around. "What else is there?"

"We've been in contact with Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. She's cooperating and has the address of where Richardson is taking his holiday. Do you want her to call Richardson to confirm the address?"

"Don't have her call him. We don't want to tip him off if he hasn't been already. How soon will the men be ready?"

"Another ten minutes, sir."

"Good. We're going in fast, we're going in hot. Doland, you're with me. I want to take Richardson alive if possible, but I am giving my orders to shoot to kill if necessary."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Martin was so giddy, he nearly cut himself shaving this morning. It wouldn't matter if he did, it would only add one more scar to the many he's already accumilated. What's one more compared to the freedom he was about to taste? He was going to go home. He was going to fly again.

Douglas called from downstairs. "Martin, are you ready?"

Martin was more than ready. Last night he and Douglas spent hours going over the story Martin was going to feed the police of where he's been at. He'll admit he was kidnapped, but by three men who had Yorkshire accents. ("Why Yorkshire?" Martin asked. "Truthfully, I've never been to Yorkshire," said Douglas. "I should, one day.") The lie continued: these men wanted to use Martin for ransom, but couldn't bring themselves to send off a letter. In the end, they placed a bag over Martin's head, drove him out to a deserted street and let him go.

Of course Martin was going have to elaborate on certain details like the wounds on his wrists, his ankles, and the still-fading bruise on his face. Once the police reports were done, Martin will probably take a few weeks off to 'recover' and then he'll be back in the captain seat. Everything will go back to normal.

- _so you're really not going to speak a word about the other victims? How many people has he killed? He_ skinned _a woman alive, and you're really going to let that go? He's not going to stop. Not now, not ever-_

"I'm going to fly again," Martin said. "That's all that matters to me."

He picked up the crutches and started to make the trek downstairs. It was going to be so weird facing Terry again, having to lie to his face of knowing his mother's house. (Over on that dresser by the window, Douglas fucked me for nearly an hour and we ended up knocking over some family photos.)

That stupid little thought made him giggle.

"What's so funny?" Douglas asked as Martin entered the kitchen.

"Nothing important. Are you done cleaning?"

"Almost." Douglas placed away the last of the dishes. "I'm going to give the house one last look over and see if I left anything."

"Don't forget to check for your mobile. You don't want a repeat of Sicily."

"Ugh, why did you have to remind me of that?"

Martin grinned at his retreating back, then pulled out a chair from the table to sit down on. It was so bright, so warm in the kitchen, he couldn't resist and laid his head down on his arms. He wanted to nod off right there. It was so tempting to. Once he got back, he was going to sleep for a very long time. In his own bed, in his own blankets.

- _your things are not going to be there anymore. Mum probably has them. Besides, you're going to be with Douglas, remember? It'll be his bed, his blankets_ -

A noise startled him out of his light doze. Martin sat up slowly, starining his ears, thinking it was Douglas making a racket upstairs. No, there was the noise again. The crows outside were squawking loudly, like something's disturbed them. Martin got up and hobbled over to the window.

Coming quietly out from the forest were demons.

Dozens of them, black as the night, their faces blank and their bodies burly. Every single one of them carried a shield resembling that of a roman soldier. Every step they took towards the house was purposeful, readying themselves for a fight.

Martin blinked, his moment of insanity draining quickly out of him, and he saw what was really coming out of the forest. They police officers dressed in riot gear, not demons. Martin gasped.

A few weeks ago he would have cried at the sight. He was going to be saved, he was going to be taken home. It was everything he ever hoped and dreamed for. Instead, an intense wave of panic swept through him and he stumbled back, crying out for Douglas.

- _things were not going to go back to normal. If they were here, that means they know, they know everything. They were going to ruin all his plans, his goals, and there was nothing he could do to stop it-_

"Douglas! Dougl-"

"I see them," Douglas said, moving past Martin. He swiftly walked from window to window, quickly peering out. "They've got the entire house surrounded."

"What should we do? I can't run with this ankle."

Douglas pulled out a knife from the wood block next to the fridge. It was a good twelve inch steel knife, the blade and handle forged together perfectly. Terry's mum must've paid a fortune for a knife like that. "What are you doing?" Martin asked. "They have guns, you can't fight against that!"

"No," Douglas said, turning towards him. The knife was gripped harder in his hand. "You're right. I can't fight against them."

- _fucking **run**_ -

Martin backed away slowly, hoping he was wrong in reading the situation. He had to be wrong. Douglas said, he _promised-_ -

Something snapped inside of Martin, forcing him to move. He twisted, throwing away the crutches to the side. He crashed against the kitchen table, scrambling to get away. Douglas grabbed him sharply by his hair, jerking him back. Martin stepped incorrectly and placed his entire weight on his ankle. White spots of pain exploded in front of his eyes as Douglas dragged him back, forcing him against Douglas' chest. The knife was shoved underneath Martin's chin, the cold blade immediately cutting into him, splling his blood.

"DOUGLAS, PLEASE-!" He cried out as Douglas pulled him backwards towards the front door. Douglas shifted his grip from Martin's hair to his torso. Every time Martin lost his footing, Douglas hauled him back up. "NO, DON'T-!"

"Open the door, Martin. Open the fucking door-!"

Martin couldn't see where the handle was. He blindly reached out, his hand knocking against the wood until it gripped around the handle. He pulled open.

The sudden change in the environment was unbearable. Inside the house it was quiet, cool, and smelling faintly of flowers. Once outside, the sweltering heat of the summer fell heavily over Martin like a fat, thick blanket. The humidity intensified the smells of the forest, of rotten leaves, mud, and grass, tickling his nose, and he had to fight not to sneeze. The sun was in his eyes, blinding him from the dozens of officers pointing their guns in their direction.

"DOUGLAS RICHARDSON, LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPON AND RELEASE CAPTAIN CRIEFF!"

The knife never waivered from Martin's neck. The combined smell of pollen, sweat, and his own blood was making Martin dizzy. He was going to faint, oh god, he was going to faint. "Douglas, please," Martin begged. Tears streamed down his face. "You promised, you promised..."

- _have things go back to normal, back to normal, back to normal, I want to fly again-_

"I know," said Douglas.

His arm around Martin's torso tightened.

The knife was suddenly gone from his neck and Martin was shoved forward. He was thrown over the stairs entirely, crashing heavily to the forest floor.

There were screams and yells, noises Martin couldn't comprehend. He was too stunned and confused to understand. Hands were grabbing at him, pulling him up and away, dragging him, and Martin fought them, unsure which way was up or left or-

He managed to get loose long enough to look behind him. Slumped against the door was Douglas. The knife was sticking out of his chest, his hand still grasped around the handle.


	18. Chapter 18

In the five years Martin has known Carolyn, this was the very first time he's been in her home longer than five minutes. In the past Arthur had invited him over for Christmas and dinners numerous of times. Martin always refused, feeling uncomfortable. Now here he was, sitting in the guest room of their home.

The guest room was nice. It was obvious Arthur had some say over the furniture for the room. There was a beanbag in the corner, a Mickey Mouse clock on the wall, and there was even a painting of dogs playing poker. As Martin started rummaging through his small duffel bag of clothes to put them away, there was a knock on the door.

It was Carolyn. "Are you settling in fine?"

"Yes, thank you." Martin said. "Seriously, Carolyn, thank you. I couldn't handle Simon or my mother any longer."

"I'm surprised you wanted to stay. After everything that's happened, I thought you wouldn't want to be around us any longer."

Martin loved his mother and siblings very much. But he couldn't stand watching his mother burst into tears every time she saw Martin limping. Simon would ask inappropriate questions about Martin's imprisonment. "I'm surprised you were willing to have me. I... I'm sorry about GERTI."

The plane was taken in by the police for further investigation. They said once they were done with it, they would give it back, but it could be months or even years before that happened. Martin told the police he had no idea if Douglas killed while they were overseas.

"Don't be," said Carolyn. "I already sold it back to Gordon."

"What? What does he want with a plane he can't even use?"

"For the same reason why I sold it: for money. He thinks he can use the plane to... advertise Douglas." She started mimicking Gordon's accent. " _And here is where the serial killer Douglas Richardson sat. For fifty pounds, you too can sit in that same chair. And for ten more pounds, have your picture taken!'"_

Martin groaned. "Oh, that's sick."

"I'd agree, but I've taken dates on Ripper walks. I have no right to judge."

"What do you plan to do now?"

Carolyn sighed. She crossed the room and sat down on the bed. Martin hobbled over and sat down as well, keeping his distance. "Well," Carolyn started. "MJN is officially over. Even if I wanted to go on, the press would have forced us to shut down anyways. Or it might attract the wrong crowd, I don't know."

"You don't want to continue?"

"Yes, but... it's been weeks, Martin, since the truth has come out. And I still cannot believe it's real. To know Douglas did all those horrible, horrible things, and what happened to you..."

She looked down at the pale scars on Martin's wrists. She looked away when Martin tugged down his cuffs.

She shook her head. "There was no way I could carry on after that. Why? Do you still want to be a pilot?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"It's not going to be easy to ease back into. Like GERTI, it could be months, or even years before I'd be allowed to fly again. No commercial airline would think of taking me on. I might... have to go somewhere else. America, maybe."

"Are you allowed to travel?"

"I don't see any reason why they would bar me. I told the police everything."

That was a lie. Martin never told them about the rapes, about the moment in the rain, the word games, the way Martin broke that early afternoon and willing took Douglas' cock into his own mouth.

"God," Martin said. "I need a drink. Please tell me you have something in the house right now."

"I have bourbon."

"Perfect."

 

 

 

 

 

Martin's alcohol tolerance was lower than he liked it to be. He drank back in uni; cheap beer was always avaliable no matter where he was, but Martin was a sloppy drunk. He slurred, he drooled, he was as uncoordinated as a newborn calf. After two generous glasses of bourbon, Martin was gone.

"It feels sooooo strange to be back," he said to Carolyn. He swirled the remains of the ice around in his glass, watching it clink from side ot side. "It almost doesn't feel real. I slept on the floor the other day because it reminded me of the basement. That's... that's bullshit, I think. It's bullshit."

Carolyn was on her third glass and her face wasn't as red as Martin's. She was still drunk. "I... obviously I don't know how you feel, with the whole... kidnapping and torture... thing... but yes, it doesn't feel real. I've known Douglas longer than you. Still hard to believe he was capable of such evil."

"Wasn't evil," Martin muttered. "Necessary."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"He didn't do it because... he liked to inflict pain and wanted to watch people suffer. He did because he needed to satisfy something. Like an _itch_."

"He told you this?"

"More or less. I didn't... really understand."

"Do you know why did he chose you?"

That was an question that was never answered. Not properly, not in a way Martin could understand or explain. Now it was never going to be answered. Not with Douglas already buried, as requested in his will. "He... he didn't know he loved me."

This was the very first time Martin said that out loud. He didn't even mentioned this to the police.

Carolyn huffed. "That's not love, Martin. If he loved you, he wouldn't have done that to you."

"He didn't know."

"Then what about the end? He..." Carolyn drunkenly pointed to the small, faint scar on Martin's neck where the knife was held. "He was about to kill you. Was that love?"

It was humiliating to think back to that moment, the way Martin begged for his life like a dog. Worse, he knew the police had the whole thing on video. His story, his reactions were going to be watched over and over again for decades to come.

"I don't know," Martin murmured, staring down at his drink.

 

 

 

 

 

435 emails. All sent within the last twenty-four hours.

Every single one of them were variations of the same thing. _Can we interview you? May we make an appointment to talk to you? Here's our phone number, please call us for an interview._

Martin stared at them unhappily. He pressed 'select all' and then 'delete'.

Two seconds after pressing delete, seven more emails popped up. "Come on!"

He was considering answering one of them with a scathing reply when Arthur knocked on the door. "Martin, are you alright?"

"I... ugh, yes, I'm fine. Do you need something, Arthur?"

"I brought coffee. May I come in?"

Four more emails popped up. With a huff, Martin closed his laptop and swiveled around on his chair. "Yes, that sounds great. Thank you."

Arthur let himself in carrying in a tray with two cups of steaming mugs and a plate with biscuits. Martin eagerly looked on, watching Arthur place the tray down on the small table in the middle of the room. Martin came over, limping lightly.

When he saw the biscuits, he stopped. They were the same brand Douglas used to drug him.

Now seeing them in the light, Martin noticed there was considerably less caramel on them. Did Douglas add in his own drug-laced caramel on top? The police never mentioned to Martin if they found the biscuits.

"Martin, are you okay?"

"What? Uh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Your eyes glazed over."

"I'm fine, Arthur. Thank you for the coffee."

He picked up the mug.

The familiar smell of Arthur's coffee filled his senses. Carolyn always bought the cheap coffee, so it had a very distinctive smell, made even more unique from the way Arthur brewed it. It was the same coffee Martin drank for five years, sitting in the captain's seat, with Douglas right next to him.

Martin put the mug down. He squeezed his eyes shut as a sudden headache pounded his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said, backing away. "I'm sorry, I don't-"

"Oh-? Oh! Martin, I'm sorry, I didn't realize, I'll just take it away."

Martin flopped down on the bed, putting his head into his hands. He was told there were going to be moments like this, where everything was normal for one second, and in the next he could be on the ground, wailing. It was so strange how the drug-biscuits only triggered only a moment, while the goddamn coffee filled him with literal years of memories.

They were good memories too.

Arthur came back a moment later, taking a seat next to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Martin mumbled. He sat up straight, sighing tiredly. "I'll be fine. It's just... it's so surreal, Arthur. I feel like I could go back to work tomorrow and expect everything to be the same. Like, Douglas could be there and I wouldn't even question it. It's... how do we go forward from this?"

"I don't know. Part of me still doesn't believe it either."

Martin stared ahead, looking out into the hallway through the open door. He wondered how Terry was handling this, his mother now permanently evicted from her own home.

"I am glad you're back, though," said Arthur. "I was worried sick while you were gone."

"Hah. Yeah, I missed you too, Arthur."

"If you need anything, Martin, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask. You know I'm here for you."

As he said that, he slowly slid his hand over Martin's knee.

Martin startled. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Arthur immediately withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't think-"

"What, did you actually believe I would be in the mood for this? We were just talking about Douglas, the man who _kidnapped_ , _tortured_ and _raped_ me, and you _actually thought_ this was the best time to try to initiate romance?"

"Martin, I'm sorry, I just... he-wha? He raped you? Douglas raped you?"

Humiliation had Martin choking. He couldn't believe he said that, he didn't want anybody to know-

" _Get out_."

"Martin-"

"I said, _get out_!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So, I heard you yelled at Arthur today."

"Not now, Carolyn."

"May I ask what it was about?"

"Bad timing."

"Are you willing to forgive him?"

Martin was too angry to feel like forgiving anybody. He'd rather brood. "Not now."

"Fine. Dinner's in a hour, and if you come down, I expect a certain level of civility. I understand you're under a lot of stress right now, but I will not tolerate your attitude towards my son.

"If you want me to leave, then just say it."

"Oh lord, listen to you. Martin, I'm not your enemy here. Neither is Arthur. We're your friends."

"So was Douglas." Martin said bitterly.

That was the wrong thing to say. Carolyn took in a sharp breath. "I am going to pretend you did _not_ just compare us to Douglas," she bit out. "So I am going to repeat it again: we're your friends, not your enemies, not your punching bags. Understood?"

"...Yes."

"Right. I'll see you at dinner."

 

 

 

 

 

Hanging on Arthur's door was a wooden plaque, spelling out his name in various colours. Martin stared at it, his lips thinned in second-hand embarrassment. On the other side of the door, he could hear Arthur sniffling.

Martin sighed. Swallowing his discomfort, he gently knocked on the door. "Arthur, it's me. May I come in?"

There was no answer.

Martin tested the knob. It was unlocked. "Arthur?"

Arthur was sitting up on his bed, hugging a pillow to his chest. His eyes were red, tears were still streaming down his cheeks. "It's okay, Martin," he croaked out. "You don't need to talk to me."

"I want to talk to you." Martin closed the door. "I want to apologize for snapping at you like that. I know you were just-"

"No. No, you were right. What was I thinking? I mean, you already told me no before. I knew you don't want to be with me and I still... I'm happy you're back, Martin. I was so relieved to hear you were found, so happy to know you were safe. I shouldn't have..."

"No, you shouldn't have," Martin agreed. "But... I also know you didn't mean anything by it. I know you're a good person, Arthur. I know you mean me no harm."

Martin waited, knowing what was going to come next.

"Did..." Arthur sniffled. He wiped at his eyes, grimacing at the sting. "Did Douglas really...?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Don't tell your mother," Martin said quickly. "I don't want anybody to know."

"I won't. But... the police don't know?"

"No. And I want to keep it that way."

"May I ask why? Never mind, you don't have to tell me."

Martin crossed the room and sat down next to him. Despite the overly-cutesy plaque on the door, Arthur's room was very nice. There were a few framed photos of aeroplanes, photos of Carolyn, Snoopadoop, and of Gordon. There were had a few toys on display, but not as many as Martin assumed. Arthur had his computer, a few library books, and souvenirs on his desk. "Did Douglas ever mentioned to you if he was attracted to me?"

Arthur shook his head. "He was married. I just assumed..."

"Me too." Martin had no idea how Douglas' ex-wives and his daughter were going through right now. It wasn't easy to find out the man you once called your husband was now the most notorious serial killer in England. "I thought he was going to kill me. Right there in front of those police officers."

Martin thought back to that moment. Douglas holding him, pressing that knife against his neck, dragging him outside. Martin had been so scared- not of dying, not of the knife or the blood dribbling down his neck, but of the fear he was never going to fly again. That this was it, everything was ruined and there was no going back.

"He, um..." Martin didn't know how to describe it. "He pulled me close and I thought, this was it. He'd rather kill me than let me go. But he did. He pushed me away. And I thought... why did he that? I don't get it, I don't understand a lick of sense of it... why would he...?"

"You said he pulled you close?"

"Yeah."

Arthur frowned. "So he hugged you?"

Something inside of Martin suddenly shattered. It felt like he was in a vacuum and all the air was violently sucked out of his chest. Arthur was saying his name, but Martin was not hearing him.

 _Douglas hugged him before killing himself_.

Suddenly Martin was on the floor, his fingers desperately grasping at the carpet. The ringing in his ears blocked out the world around him. He didn't know if he was screaming or crying or both. Arthur's hand was on his back, rubbing soothingly, but the sensation was far away.

In the end Douglas never had intentions of killing Martin. He made Martin look like the victim, kept his secrets safe, letting the world never question his choices. All Douglas got in return was a single moment, holding the man he loved in his arms, before letting him go.


	19. Chapter 19

_"Thank you for joining us here today, Martin."_

_"Uh.. you're welcome. I mean yes, thank you. Thank you? Thank... you."_

_"It's alright to be nervous. After everything you've been through, it's quite understandable."_

_"Yeah..."_

_"Besides nervousness, do you feel anything else?"_

_"I'm... a bit hungry?"_

_"We do have snacks if you need them-"_

_"No, no! It's fine. I'm fine. I'm fine."_

_"Alright. Let's move on. For our first question, were you ever aware of Douglas being a murderer?"_

_"No, no! God, no. He... we all knew how clever he was. But murder? Never once we suspected."_

_"Do you think he was capable of murder?"_

_"...Yes. Than again, I think anybody is capable of murder. You just need... the right motivation."_

_"What was Douglas' motivation?"_

_"I don't know. He never shared."_

_"He held you for nearly three months. You were colleagues for nearly five years. And never once he explained why he killed?"_

_"He... ah... Douglas was known to be dramatic, even during our breaks. He never resisted putting on flair. Maybe he always wanted to tell me, but was waiting for the right moment. But, Inspector McCormick came and rescued me, and that was that, I guess."_

_"Let's talk about Inspector McCormick. Were you aware he got an infection in his leg and it had to be amputated?"_

_"God, yes, I heard. It's horrible."_

_"Has he shared anything with you?"_

_"Some. I'm aware that he and the other officers are desperate to ID the numerous bodies, that they want my help, but I'm a victim too. I don't... I don't want to hear the dirty details. I want to keep my distance."_

_"Martin, I'm not going to lie to you. Those dirty details are important. To understand the mind of a killer, to figure out how to prevent future ones, anything we can learn can help. Are you willing to share those details?"_

_"I... suppose."_

_"Tell us, Martin, please. Help us understand the mind of an evil serial-"_

_"He wasn't evil."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"Douglas. He wasn't... don't call him that."_

_"Martin, he kidnapped you, tortured you, and as of right now, the official count of his victims are in the sixties. You don't consider that evil?"_

_"He... when you say evil, all I get in my head is a cartoon character with a black top hat and a large mustache. Douglas was my friend. He was my first officer. It's because of that relationship, it's the reason why I survived. It's the reason he let me go."_

_"Let you go? Accoridng to the reports, Douglas held a knife to your throat during those last moments."_

_"I can't expect you to understand. I can't explain it in a way to make you understand. For better or worse, he was my friend. That's all I can say about that."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur wouldn't let go. Martin didn't mind. The hug felt nice, and it was good to touch another human being without recoiling. When he said goodbye to his mother, Martin couldn't bring himself to hug her.

When Arthur finally pulled back, he was fighting back tears and losing. He sniffled. "You'll write to us, right?"

"Of course I will, Arthur. I'll send postcards too."

Carolyn hugged him as well. Her touch was softer than Arthur's. Her awful old-woman perfume tickled his nose, and for a second Martin seriously considered telling her how much everyone hated it. He resisted.

"Text us as soon as you land in Alaska," Carolyn said, pulling back. "And then text us again when you get to your new home."

Martin laughed. "I'll be fine. But yes, I'll text you."

"Do you got everything?"

"Yup, I think so."

"Alright then. I guess this is it."

For that exclusive interview, Martin was paid nearly thirty thousand pounds. It lasted a grueling two hours and it was the most exhausting, cringe-worthy thing he has ever done. The interviwer kept pushing Martin to speak of the gore, kept implying if Douglas was having sex with the corpses. Only the thought of the getting paid kept Martin from storming out of that room.

Once the money cleared in his account, he got in contact with an old flight school friend who lived in Alaska. (She was a married lesbian with two children. No fears of her being a secretive serial killer here.) She agreed to host him until he established himself better.

Martin has always known as a commercial pilot, the chances of him leaving England and going to live somewhere else was high. He always thought he ended up somewhere in Europe or Australia. He needed to go somewhere where his face wasn't plastered on every television set. Alaska wasn't the ends of the Earth but it felt like it was.

He just needed to leave. Start over.

"I'll come visit," Martin promised. "And you two should come visit me."

"I always wanted to see the Northern Lights," Arthur said. His bottom lip wobbled only a little.

With one last hug, Martin picked up his carry-on bags and entered the plane.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next few days were going to be grueling. It was a eight hour flight to D.C., then it was a twelve hour layover, then a nine hour flight to California, four hours up to Washington, then another nine hours to Alaska. That was assuming there were no delays, but it looked like Washington was going to face severe thunder storms by the time Martin hit the west coast.

He better get some sleep now, Martin decided, tucking his bag under the chair in front of him. He pulled out the neck pillow Arthur got him.

"Getting ready for the long flight?"

Martin leaned up to turn to the man sitting next to him in the aisle seat. He was an older gentleman, about forty years of age, with peppered grey hair, a strong jawline, and pale blue eyes. He looked like a cowboy. He even had a Southern American accent.

"Yes," Martin said. "As soon as we take off, I'm going to sleep."

"That's a good idea. Though I was hoping to have a conversation. I like making new friends."

It sounded innocent enough, except when he said 'friends', his voice dropped an octave and he leaned in suggestively. "I'm Thomas," he said, giving Martin a dazzling smile. "Do you-"

Martin cut him off suddenly by closing the distance between them, kissing him.

It barely lasted a second before he leaned back. "Find me when we land."

With that, he hooked the pillow around his neck and closed his eyes.

"Wait," said Thomas. "We're not landing for another couple of hours, why-?"

Martin ignored him, settling deeper into his seat. He sighed, his body relaxing.

There were so many secrets Martin was going to take to his grave. He was the one who broke his grandmother's favourite tea set and not the dog. He was the one who dropped the lit cigarette on his neighbourhood's only apple tree, setting it ablazed. During those last few days in the woods, he was the one who pulled Douglas close, kissing him softly. Call it stockholm syndrome, call it whatever you like, Martin didn't care.

He was grateful to be alive. He was grateful to be in an aeroplane again. It was worth it.

Martin was jostled awake when the plane jerked, backing away from the gate. He quickly drifted off again, the familiar, welcoming sounds of the engines lulled him back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long the flights are from England to Alaska, so I made some assumptions. 
> 
> I did learn that many exclusive interviews don't pay for them, so the plot of Martin getting that money through an interview is entirely fictional. But I already wrote it by the time I learned that, and went with it.
> 
> The story was lightly inspired by an old Sherlock fic in which Sherlock, who was so obsessed with John, held him hostage for an entire week. I don't remember what the fic was called or where I read it. If anybody knows what I'm talking about, I would gladly link to it.  
> Edit: Found it! http://archiveofourown.org/works/225092/chapters/340523


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